Thick as Thieves
by Serindrana
Summary: Thaddeus Campbell is dead. Geoff is gone. All Callista has left is a name. AU. Callista/Martin
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Callista stared up at the hulking expanse of the Holger Square offices of the Abbey. It was midday, but the compound seemed to blot out what little sunlight was getting through the clouds. The square itself was still slick with rain, and she made herself walk across the entrance. Today, luckily, there were none of the heretics that could occasionally be found locked in the stocks for public humiliation and reeducation, and so there were no crowds, and no howls of pain or pleadings for forgiveness. She reached the main square, where black banners hung from the rooftop of the building, and patrols of Overseers stalked in orderly routes, hounds snarling and pacing at their heels.

Thaddeus Campbell, one of the most powerful men in Dunwall, was dead. She hardly cared. It was a footnote to her fear and grief. She clutched at the piece of paper balled up in her fist, and crossed to the guard post.

It was hard to gauge the Overseer's expression behind his hideous mask, but the movement of his head suggested he was looking her over. "State your business," he said, voice muffled and distorted by the brass.

He was, she supposed, less gruff and a bit more relaxed than the men guarding the entrance to Holger. She cleared her throat and clutched at the paper again. "I'm- to meet Overseer Martin. He's cleared me, at the gate."

The Overseer didn't respond. _Obviously_ he had cleared her - otherwise nobody would have let her in. She was shaking all the way down to her carefully polished shoes and best stockings, and she straightened her shoulders, puffing out her chest in the hope that it would help make her trembling less obvious.

"I need directions and an escort to- to the east meeting room," she said, then added in a rush, "or at least that's what they told me."

"Right," the Overseer said. He stepped back from the window and turned away from her. He said something, but Callista barely marked it; her usual pinprick acuity in times of stress was blanketed over by the rushing of her blood in her ears, the overawareness of her own isolation.

_Geoff must be out of the city by now._ It was a certainty. She repeated it over and over again instead of the Strictures, and hoped that the Overseers had no way of knowing.

The door to the guard post opened, and an Overseer stepped out. It was impossible to tell if he was the same one she'd spoken to; their uniforms were all cleaned and pressed, and there wasn't much variation in their builds. She'd heard rumors that they were selected as much for their likely ability with a sword as they were for the stars being favorable; perhaps they were even chosen to be interchangeable. He didn't speak a word, and so she was deprived even of a voice that she couldn't have hoped to recognize in the state she was in. She followed as he led her towards the great doors of the Abbey, into the marble hall where no sermons were currently being read.

The building was strangely silent. She had visited only a few times before, for funerals and a few public services, but each time the marble floors and vaulted ceilings had made the sermons boom and echo; they had followed her wherever she went. Now she could only hear the distant hum of electric defenses and the march of feet. She frowned and kept her head down and her hands clasped before her as she followed her guide up the stairs three floors to a hall draped not in black but in red. Overseers stood by every door along the passageway. They stopped in front of the last door in the hall, and as he knocked, she realized that, by her calculations, they were in the west arm of the building.

She tried to swallow down her terror, but it began squirming up her throat like the still-alive octopi and squids they served down by the docks, in the open fish markets.

"Enter," said somebody inside the room. His voice was muffled by the heavy wood of the door, but it sounded confident, easy.

Her escort opened the door, then stepped back to give her room to enter. "Will there be anything else, Brother Martin?" he said.

"No, nothing," said Martin, who was still out of view. The room hooked off to the left, past where she could see, and while not a meeting room, it was a comfortable, clean office. "Come on, then. Let me see you."

Callista glanced at her escort, and the red-bannered walls, then took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The door closed behind her.

The room was warm and largely lit by a crackling fire. Callista edged towards it and scanned the room for Martin. She found him sitting at a desk tucked away from the door, elbows on the surface of it, chin propped on one loosely curled fist.

"I do see the family resemblance," he mused, his mouth curling into a slow smirk. "Come on, sit down. I'm impressed that you came - and so soon."

"I had nowhere else to go. My uncle-"

"Is currently a suspect in the murder of Thaddeus Campbell. I'm sure half the barracks are getting chains ready for you, since you gave your last name at the gate."

Her blood chilled. "A suspect in-"

"He didn't tell you?" Martin sat back, quirking a brow, then rose and went to a sideboard. He poured a fingersworth of what looked like brandy into a glass, then returned to his desk and set it on the far edge, closest to her. "I guess it's not something he's strictly _proud_ of. Come on, sit. We have much to talk about, Miss Curnow."

"He told me he had to flee the city. That something had gone- wrong," she said as she edged towards the chair drawn up to his desk. It looked plush and comfortable.

"Both true statements," Martin said, nudging the glass a little closer to her.

"He- he gave me your name," she said, lowering herself gingerly into the seat. "He said to go to you if I ever needed help."

Martin hummed low in his throat. "Help. Yes, I am here to help. I owe your uncle a great deal."

"Owe?" she asked, looking between him and the glass. "My uncle didn't gamble, as far as I'm aware."

"Circumspect. I like that. You're asking around the real issue quite nicely." His smirk transformed into a grin. "No, it's not a _gambling_ debt. I would like you to trust me, and speak openly with me. After all, I have already let you into the hall that contain all the contenders for the office of High Overseer."

She shifted, torn between the ease he exuded and well-learned caution. "And what about the east meeting room?"

"Is a misdirection, should any visitors be here to take advantage of the chaos. By your obedience and obvious fear, you seem to have put my men at ease. _My_ men, mind you. It's the others ready to lock you in chains." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a cigarette case, then paused.

He looked her over, all the narrow, pinched inches of her wound tight with fear, then leaned forward once more. "Let's start over. My name is Teague Martin, I knew your uncle briefly, and I would like to help you in whatever way you need help."

"This is all, you understand, happening very quickly, and I don't have all the pieces. Could you do more than hint at what happened last night?"

"I would like to tell you, Miss Curnow - but that would require a level of trust that we haven't reached yet." His ever-present smirk turned faintly sad at that, and he focused on extracting a cigarette from its case and lighting its tip in the flame of the whale-oil lamp on the corner of his desk.

"Is my uncle _only_ a suspect?"

He regarded her for a long moment, smoke curling from his fingers. "No. He killed the High Overseer."

Callista closed her eyes, grimacing. She thought back to Geoff, appearing at the door of her small apartment, furtive and shaking as she'd never seen him shake before. He had been uncharacteristically jumpy. He'd offered no explanations, only kissed her brow, written out Martin's name, and told her he would be leaving at dawn - and to not try to follow him. Two hours after he'd gone, the loudspeakers began blaring with news of Campbell's death.

She'd had her doubts. Now they were certainties. She breathed in, deeply. The only way out was forward, and the past had so far never allowed her to change it. Her fingers curled tightly around one another in her lap.

_Tink tink_ went Martin's finger against the glass in front of her. She opened her eyes to find him watching her.

"It might help," he suggested, then pulled his hand away and took a long drag of his cigarette. Smoke curled from his nose.

Callista reached for her glass. "So there's no chance of him ever coming back, then, is there," she said, the words not forming a question at all.

"No, not really," Martin said. "At least not for a few years, a decade maybe. Time enough for a regime change or two to happen. Though given a sympathetic High Overseer, one who was glad to see Campbell go... well. Timelines could be accelerated." He chuckled. "Go ahead, Miss Curnow. Drink. Your uncle was right to send you to me - you're safe here."

_Safe_.

She tilted her head back and swallowed down the whole glass.

"So what's the part you can't tell me?" she asked, after the burning of her mouth had slowed.

He chuckled. "I can't tell you that, Miss Curnow. But I can help in other ways."

"I only care about what happened."

"That's what brought you all this way, to a stranger's door?" He clucked his tongue.

"My uncle said to come-"

"-if you needed help. Do you need help?"

She swallowed, thickly, and turned in her seat, looking around the room. It seemed small for what it was, but it was still as large as her entire apartment, which was tucked in an older, poorer section of the Legal District. Her apartment was comfortable. But-

"I just wanted answers," she said, and slowly stood. "Thank you, for giving me what you could."

He didn't move from behind his desk. "Think carefully before you leave. I can't have you running back to me tomorrow, or the next day. It would look suspicious. As it is, I can spin a story of how you've come for guidance after hearing your uncle confess to- well." He spread his gloved hands slowly.

"_As it is_, that's all I've done," she said. "I don't see how that's a story."

His smile turned indulgent, as if she were a small, guileless child. "Spiritual guidance, Miss Curnow. Your choice of me will already raise questions - I'm not a particularly forward-facing member of the Abbey. You understand?"

Her mind spun and lurched, but she couldn't make sense of the pieces. _Obviously_ he knew a great deal of what had happened with her uncle and Campbell. Was it dangerous for him to admit it, then?

She had to get out, to breathe.

"I'm fine. Thank you, though," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. The walls of the Abbey seemed far too heavy, too thick, and she felt trapped. She thought of the Overseers with chains waiting for her, wanting a chance to drag her in for heresy, for her connection to Geoff.

No, she was better off distancing herself from the Abbey as best she could. That had to be what Martin was after as well; if they could arrest her for being Geoff's niece, then perhaps he would face censure as well for offering her guidance.

_My uncle killed the High Overseer_. She still housed a hundred thousand questions. Why? How? Had he been angry or simply calculating? No, not calculating; she'd seen in his eyes that he hadn't planned what had happened last night. But he was gone, and wouldn't return. She was alone. And no matter what Martin said, she wasn't safe here.

"Unless you have any other details of last night that you can tell me," she said, "I'll leave you to your work."

"If you must," he said. His charming smile was back in place.

"Thank you, for telling me the truth," she added, gaze settled on his nose instead of his eyes.

"Of course, Miss Curnow. Shall we consider my debt to your uncle discharged, then?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Of course." His smile widened. For a moment, it looked dangerous, predatory.

And then she turned and rejoined her escort in the hall.

* * *

Setting her uncle's small library in order was soothing. Standing anywhere in his apartment stirred up equal parts grief and comfort, but she had found, in the first hour, that _doing _anything in his apartment made the grief fade into the background.

He was gone, it was true, almost as certainly as if he had died - but she had prepared for this. Her life had been a never-ending series of trials, and they had hardened her heart and taught her how to ignore the things she needed to ignore. She ignored the perishable food that was left, half-eaten, in his pantry. She ignored the rumpled bedsheets. She ignored every sign that just two days ago, Geoff Curnow had been a living person who breathed and moved and _was_.

Instead, she curated the art piece that was her memory of him. It was dangerous to dwell on his personhood, so she made him into a historical figure. _This_ was where he had polished his gun. _That _was where he would sit on long nights when the shadows of the past clawed at him and made him drink until he was no longer sitting, no longer awake, and it was no longer night. She honored no memories of _them_, ignoring all the reminders that she had lived here with him in this apartment for three years, before she'd reached majority.

Yesterday, she'd tidied the sitting room, and his pots and pans. Today it was his books. Tomorrow- tomorrow she'd have to look to his bedding and linens, if only to put them away in a trunk.

She read none of the books she organized, thumbed through no worn pages, looked for no imprints of his name or his life on their frontispieces and spines and binding. She put them in order, straightened a chair, and stepped back.

This was all hers now.

Geoff had bought this apartment outright a year ago. He'd told her (here the memory grew dangerous) that he didn't want to lose anything else, even if it was just a building, just a series of rooms. He'd made the mistake, he'd said, of selling his old house, the one where their family had gathered and celebrated in the years before everybody began to die off. It had seemed reasonable at the time. He'd thought it would help him move on.

It hadn't, though, and he had learned. This had been _his_. And now it passed to her; her tiny apartment couldn't compare, and she couldn't stand to see it go to anybody else but a Curnow.

She'd hoped to find notes, a letter, something that explained to her in more detail what Geoff had done or where he had gone, but there had been nothing. A few items were missing from the apartment, but he'd left most of his keepsakes behind. It was as if he'd just gone off to the countryside for a weekend.

Callista refused to let herself entertain the fantasy.

She was tidying up the small collection of miniature urns that held tiny fragments of her parents and siblings, aunts and uncles and cousins, the last of their remains that weren't scattered, when she heard heavy, authoritative knocking at the front door. One of her uncle's men, no doubt, come once more to look for the traitor Captain. She'd sent three of them away over the last few days already. Sighing, she dusted off her suit and passed from the study to the narrow hall that led to the door.

"In the name of the Lord Regent, open this door!"

She froze.

"Just break it down," another man said. His voice was muffled, but it spurred her to action. She scrambled to the door and undid the latch, hands trembling.

Five men of the Watch looked down at her as she pulled the door open.

"Yes, officers?" she asked.

One she knew, vaguely; he'd been under her uncle's direct command several years ago, and had smiled at her indulgently. She'd reminded him, he said, of his own niece, now some years gone to Tyvia. His name had been-

"Callista Curnow?" the familiar officer said.

"Yes?"

"Under orders from the Lord Regent, we are to take you into custody and seize your uncle's house. It would be in your best interest to come _quietly_."

Her fingers curled on the doorframe. "Excuse me?" _Seize your uncle's_-

"Geoff Curnow has been named a traitor of the Empire," he said as another officer grabbed her by the arm. "His assets are forfeit."

"His house passes to me in the event of his death," she said, wide-eyed, struggling against the man pulling her from the threshold.

"Have you proof of his death, Miss Curnow?" somebody asked - the officer who had shouted at her to open the door.

"It doesn't matter. The Abbey will have our hides if we don't clear the building. Get her somewhere else."

"Unhand me!" she shouted, disbelief turning to rage. "My uncle is innocent!"

"Your _uncle_ was seen arguing with the High Overseer, and has since disappeared from the city," Geoff's old friend said, snarling. "And the wounds on Campbell's body were made by a Watchman's sword. You'd do well to watch your _tongue_, girl. We're doing you a favor."

She jerked hard against the man holding her, but he only wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, pinning her against his chest. He smelled like stale beer and piss - Lower Watch. She looked around, frantically. The men were a mix; two Upper Watch officers, the other three grunts, the violent, cruel sort that Geoff had always warned her about. And somewhere else in the stairwell and hall she could hear booted footsteps, and the telltale pink-plonking of Overseers with their music boxes.

Her mother's ashes were still above the fireplace.

"Let me go!" she pleaded, eloquence fading fast. "I had nothing to do- I had no idea-"

"That's for the Regent's men to decide," the man holding her murmured, then laughed. "You absolutely _sure_ you won't know where your uncle went when they've got a red hot poker to you?"

Her chest tightened. She cried out and kicked at him, trying to get him to release her, but he seemed to delight in her struggling. He lifted her an inch from the ground. Her mind spun with images of shackles and spikes and how she was only strong in certain ways, how pain would make her break and she would tell them lie after lie to get them to stop.

She felt tears on her cheeks long before she realized she was crying.

The plinkity-plonking grew louder, and the Watchman holding her went still. She turned ideas over, frantically, one after the other. She had to get out.

_Overseers_.

She thought of Overseer Martin in his nice office, with his offer of help and safety. Maybe she could buy herself some time.

"I'm Overseer Martin's _assistant_!" she hissed, not loud enough for the approaching Overseers to hear, but loud enough to be noticed. Her uncle's friend turned, startled, before his brows drew down in a scowl.

"And I'm the Empress," he snapped.

"A-ask them!" she said waving a hand at the stairway. "Have them send for Martin! He'll confirm it! You have _no right_ to hold me!"

"Orders of the Regent," he ground out, then grimaced - and stepped out into the hall proper to greet the Overseers who had turned the last corner in the stairs and were now emerging into the hall. Wolfhounds trailed at their heels, prowling low with their snarling snouts thrust forward.

Callista watched them all warily.

"The apartment is secure?" one of the Overseers asked, voice distorted by his mask.

The officers shifted in place. Her uncle's old friend cleared his throat. "Secure, but unswept. We have Curnow's niece in custody. She wants to see _Overseer Martin_, says she's his assistant - as if you lot ever had assistants. We'll make sure to teach her a lesson for you."

The Watchman holding her tightened his arms as if he'd forgotten she was there. Her chest ached and her vision began to blur, her face feeling tight and overwarm.

Distantly, she saw one of the Overseers step forward. He had a red slash of fabric peeking out from above his wide belt. As she watched, he reached for his mask and tipped it up.

Overseer Martin looked at her appraisingly, then to the man holding her. "Set her down," he said.

Relief blossomed inside of her, choking up her throat and making her go limp. The guard hadn't released her yet, but he would.

"The Lord Regent said-"

"The _Lord Regent_ is relaying the Abbey's wishes," he said. "And the Abbey says to put her down."

The arms around her loosened somewhat. The man who had looked on her as a niece stepped forward, towards Martin. "And who are you to speak for the Abbey?"

"Teague Martin, second under consideration for the office of High Overseer. And you are?"

The guard's lip twitched, and the muscles in his neck stood out- but he deferred, taking a step back. "Reginald Black," he said, stiffly.

"Well, Officer Black. If you could get your man over there to let go of my assistant?"

"You confirm her story, then?"

She met Martin's brief glance. His confident smile was still there, but it was small, contained with military precision. He had his arms clasped behind his back at the moment, but as she watched, he gestured with all the grace of a trained orator. "This woman was my source for confirming Geoff Curnow's guilt and the fact that he has fled Dunwall. I have since hired her on as an asset to the Abbey. I would _appreciate_ if you put her down."

The man holding her laughed. "Guilt? This bitch was going on and on about his innocence. You're a fool to believe a thing she says."

"And what would _you_ say, in her position? Her uncle's men come to her door, threaten to- what, torture her? She doesn't know what you want to hear from her, so all she can _do_ is pretend she's oblivious. It doesn't take a devoted Abbey man to understand human nature _that_ much." Casually, he played with the hilt of his sword. "So, I will repeat - I would appreciate it if you put her down. The Abbey claims not only custody of her, but protection for her. I'd hate for this to descend into the sort of strife Captain Curnow was trying to create by pitting our men against one another."

Officer Black clenched his jaw, but at last waved a hand. The man holding her slowly set her back down and released his hold on her. She crumpled into a heap at his feet, gasping for breath and shaking too hard to stand.

"The Regent didn't say anything about this arrangement."

"The Regent isn't informed of all goings-on in the Abbey. Clear the apartment," Martin said, with a wave of his hand. "But don't turn it over to Timsh just yet. I want to do a sweep of it myself once you're certain it's secure. My men will assist."

Black glared at Martin, but his men and the Overseers followed him when he turned and walked into the apartment. Callista watched them go, hunched forward, bowed over herself. She wrapped her arms tight around her waist, and tried to focus on breathing.

She was alive. She was in the middle of a horrible, horrible nightmare, but she was alive.

Leather creaked as Martin crouched beside her. She lifted her head. He looked ridiculous with his mask off but his black hood still up, his face overly wide with his hair and ears covered by black fabric, and pink indents where the mask had rested on his flesh. A small, hysterical laugh slipped out of her. It was quickly followed by a few broken sobs until she gasped for breath and swallowed it all down.

"Thank you," she said when she could speak again. It came out broken and thin.

"I believe you now owe _me_," he said with an easy smile as he balanced his weight over his heels. "An infinitely preferable situation. Can you stand?"

"I don't know," she confessed. She half-expected him to reach for her, but he didn't. Instead, he simply watched her.

_I owe him_. The thought sat uneasily with her. Geoff had told her, over and over as she grew up in his care, every time he returned with another horrible story of something seen on the job, or something one of his men had done to an innocent bystander, to never leave herself vulnerable to anybody - let alone somebody who carried a sword easily. Geoff had been very clear on that. Geoff had...

She began to cry again, her tears accompanied by the sounds of breaking objects inside the apartment. She didn't want to think on what they might be. She buried her face against her knees and let her shoulders heave until she could still them again.

When she looked up once more, Martin was still watching her.

"Come to Holger tomorrow," he said.

"What?"

"You told them you were my assistant, so my assistant you need to be. Come to Holger, I'll get everything in order."

"I can't-"

"You've put me in an interesting position, you know. To my knowledge, the Abbey has never employed somebody like you. We're rather insular. My brothers may take some convincing."

"Then what will you do?"

"I am nothing if not an innovator, Miss Curnow."

"I can't let you do this. It was- it was the only thing I could think of. I'm sorry."

"You're a governess, right?" he asked. "Between jobs at the moment?"

She nodded, slowly.

"But all the rich merchants and all the lords have sent their children out of Dunwall for the season, until the plague calms, and nobody else can afford you. That's a miserable situation to be in. Why didn't you ask for help the other night? Without income, you're little better than a rat in a gutter."

Callista flushed, hot. "I'll make ends meet. I always have."

"Yes, I'm sure. But without your uncle around to make sure things don't go badly for you..."

"He didn't."

"Oh yes, he did. I've been looking into you and your uncle a lot over the last few days - partially because of the inquest into Campbell's murder, and partially to understand what _I'm_ dealing with. Your uncle threatened and bribed a great many people to not only keep you from being belittled and threatened like all the other single young women in our fair city, but also to make sure any failings in, say, your ability to pay rent were overlooked." Martin shrugged. "He clearly cared for you. But now you must consider your future without him, Miss Curnow."

Her jaw tightened. Her chin trembled.

"I don't tell you this to frighten you," he said.

She slapped him.

He responded with only a laugh. He touched his cheek gingerly, then stood. "I suppose I deserved that."

Callista glared up at him.

He rubbed at his cheek a moment, then pulled his mask back down into place. "You could do worse than being an assistant to the next High Overseer. But - I suppose - if you decide you'd rather take your chances on your own, I'll cover for you. Either way, I'll make sure you're safe"

"Why?" she asked. "Why protect me?"

"Because you're clever," he said. "And because you trusted me enough to rely on me to protect you just now. I'm returning the favor by living up to your expectations." He glanced to the apartment. "Is there anything you would like me to preserve? I'll do my best to make sure the apartment ends up back in your possession, but I can't promise anything. A trinket or two, though-"

"The funeral urns on the mantle," she said, finally standing despite the trembling of her legs. "... Thank you."

He inclined his head to her; she imagined his smug smile beneath the metal grin. "Your uncle did me a great favor, Miss Curnow; I have much to be thankful for because of your line. I hope to see you tomorrow."

She watched as he turned and disappeared into Geoff's apartment. Alone in the hall, she looked towards the stairs.

Geoff's lessons had been very clear - protect herself at all costs.

She left the building at a slow, steady limp, headed for her apartment in the Legal District.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The Office of the High Overseer was still draped in black banners when she arrived; they matched the suit she had donned that morning, though she suspected the banners might be of finer fabric. She'd picked her garments with care with two thoughts in mind. The first was simply a matter of appropriate mourning, both for her uncle and for the life she was leaving behind, at least for a little while. The second was the curious side effect that mourning clothes had on her.

They were her armor, her dearest protection, a familiar steeling of her spine and straightening of her shoulders.

The Overseers who met her at the gate and escorted her into the great, towering building were, she assumed, Martin's men. They hadn't greeted her with any sort of deference, but there seemed to be an odd note of respect in the distance they kept from her as they walked. None of them made comments about her uncle, or referenced vague threats.

As they passed into the building, the banners changed from black to a riot of colors. The majority were the same red she was familiar with, that the Regent flew and the Abbey, too, but some were gold, some were a rich wine purple, and a few even neared Kaldwin blue. The red banners grew less and less frequent as they left the more public halls (though which guests they feared seeing the less conventional banners, she couldn't guess, since none were allowed in still). By the time they reached the hall of doors, with Martin's office at the end of it, there was only a single red banner remaining, and its fabric was comparatively worn.

There were more people walking about than there had been the last time she'd visited - and a significant portion, all with a flash of red or some other color peeking above their belts, didn't wear their masks. She'd assumed Martin had kept his off in his office because of the privacy, and had removed it at her uncle's apartment to make a point, but the men circulating with their faces bare seemed to be at work, discussing things in low voices, consulting charts and books inside their offices with their doors flung wide.

Many spared her a glance or two. She heard Martin's name whispered. She kept her head slightly bowed in deference, and was glad when she reached Martin's door and knocked before her escort could.

"Miss Curnow, here to see Overseer Martin," she said.

"Come in," he responded.

She glanced once more at her escorts, who looked at her with their unreadable masks, then opened the door and slipped inside.

Martin was sitting at his desk once more, a small black book open in one hand as he leaned back in his seat, his feet propped before him, legs crossed at the ankles. He glanced up from his reading as she approached, a smile beginning to curl his lips. No, not his lips, she decided - it was more a mirthful, yet calculating, narrowing of his eyes.

"Very good clothing choice. Should I prevail, I'll see what I can do about getting you a uniform modeled after it," he said. He didn't, she noted, invite her to sit.

So she remained standing a few feet away, hands clasped before her. "Prevail?"

"In our little internal struggle. Chances are looking very good that I'm to be the next High Overseer, though. The stars are- _favorable_."

The way he said it made her skin crawl, ever so slightly, and her gaze went to the book in his hand. It didn't look like Strictures, or even a printed book. It looked more like a personal notebook.

He shut it, and she looked up to find him watching her, that same appraising, glittering light in his eyes. He said nothing as he slipped the book into a pocket of his uniform.

"Things have changed since I was here last," she said, after a moment's strained silence.

"The Feast of Painted Kettles is in full swing, yes," he said. "Tell me, what changes have you noticed? I'd like a demonstration of your attention to detail."

"Is this an interview?" she asked, hands tightening around one another.

"Of a sort. I _believe_ you will be a useful assistant, but two meetings is hardly enough to form a firm opinion. Just tell me everything you've noticed."

"Not much," she confessed, pressing her legs together in an unconscious attempt to shrink down. The armor of her mourning garments kept her from hunching forward. "That there are banners hung which each seem to match the bits of fabric several Overseers are wearing near their belts. That those Overseers so marked are not wearing their masks. That to the outside world, the building is still in deep mourning, but that it's only a facade if you're allowed inside."

He hummed, then slid his feet from the desk and sat forward. "Understandably, you lack the metaphysical context to understand all of that?"

"I could take guesses, but they'd only _be_ guesses."

"Don't worry," he said as he rose from his seat and circled around his desk. "What the Abbey teaches the masses is very... simplified. There are additional layers of protection against the Outsider that we practice every day that simply wouldn't be possible to disseminate. You will have to learn them, though, to be an effective assistant, or else you will misinterpret behaviors or think certain phrases are important when, in reality, they hold no meaning and seek only to distract from the speaker's true intentions."

She nodded, slowly. "My uncle told me about similar... behaviors among the Watch. That a citizen could see the Watch every day but not fully understand what some of the posturing meant."

"It's true of any closed group, to a greater or lesser degree," Martin agreed. He motioned for her to follow him over to one of the windows lining the opposite side of his office.

"Have you ever heard a theory as to why we Overseers wear our masks?"

"Protection," she said. "Intimidation."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Anything else? You can trust me, Miss Curnow - I'm asking you to repeat what you've heard, not tell me your innermost feelings."

She swallowed, nervously. "... Unaccountability. If an Overseer makes an error, even if it costs somebody their life, the surviving family can't point to a single person and ask for justice. They can only point at the whole Abbey, which is too dangerous."

He chuckled. "And did your uncle teach you that?"

"He agreed with it," she said.

"It's not wrong," he said. Callista's eyes widened at the easy candor in his voice, and she watched him, suspiciously, nervously. "In fact, it's very close to the reason all the Overseers believe."

"Believe?"

"I am of the opinion," Martin drawled, "that the men who created the Abbey were still men, and that they considered a great many things when they founded the order. Many were soldiers. Most had experience clashing with armies and taking prisoners. They were practical men, Miss Curnow, and I guarantee you that they knew the effect that indistinguishable masks had on everybody outside of their group."

Her eyes widened further. "That sounds-"

"Heretical?" he asked, lightly.

She nodded.

"I won't tell if you won't, Miss Curnow."

The air seemed thick and close around her, coiling around her bare throat. She had never been a fervent adherent, but she'd been raised speaking the Strictures and she had been taught to obey every one, if only to avoid drawing dangerous attention to herself. But here, in the heart of the Abbey, a man who would be High Overseer could tell her this and ask for her confidence.

She thought back to their earlier conversations. He'd been so focused, in his way, on the issue of trust - her trusting him to protect her, him trusting her with details of the High Overseer's death. He was testing her at every step, and she looked at him again, at the firm line of his jaw, the shadow of his brow.

He had no reason to trust her, but he was telling her something he at least wanted her to believe was heretical. For all she knew, other Overseers of his rank might believe the same thing. It might be an open secret. It hardly mattered; what mattered was his extension of trust. She could live up to it, or she could betray him.

He was testing her.

"I won't tell," she said. "I have no reason to."

Martin chuckled. "I'm sure you could think of some, if you wanted. But I appreciate your candor." He turned to face her, leaning against the windowsill.

"What do the others believe?" she asked, trying desperately to read his body language, his expression. How much of this was a test? She had to assume all of it.

"That the masks, because they all look the same, will confuse spirits - even the Outsider - and protect the identity of the individuals beneath them. If a spirit cannot identify who fights it, the man is safe the moment the fray is over. Any spirit who attempts to attack an Overseer will be unable to focus its efforts. The danger is spread out and borne by the whole Abbey." He chuckled. "As I said- very close to your theory on unaccountability."

"It's hardly my theory."

He grinned. "Of course not, Miss Curnow."

His gaze on her was warm, despite its testing appraisal. A part of her wanted to let her guard drop. He had told her she was safe here, and that little part, that very tired part of her, wanted to believe him.

Her voice was somewhat softer when she asked, "And the Overseers no longer wearing masks?"

His only answer was a lifted brow.

"And the distinct colors," she said, but it came out as a statement, not a question, and she frowned in thought. "It makes you all very easy to identify, doesn't it?"

"A High Overseer," Martin said, "can't be afraid of what lurks in the darkness, can he?"

"I suppose not," she agreed.

She fancied that Martin was impressed with her, reading it in the way he turned from the window and went to the sideboard to pour them both a drink.

"So what will my duties be, Overseer?"

"Very few, until the Feast is concluded," he said, glancing up at her. "Your presence will be... potentially disruptive until then. The Abbey hires no maids, and the only women who walk these halls with any sort of authority are the sisters of the Oracular Order. Your existence and position are dangerously out of step with the way things have always been done."

"That won't change once the Feast is done - and I assume once you're High Overseer?"

He shrugged. "A normal Overseer hardly needs an assistant," he agreed. "So until the Feast is concluded, our visits will be more about education - I need you up to speed as quickly as possible. And it will also be about getting my brothers used to your presence.

"There is also, of course, the need for you to publicly denounce your uncle."

He said it so easily that it took Callista several breaths to process what he had said. Her heart sank. "Publicly-"

"Yes, for the whole Abbey to see. You must prove that you hate the man, and that you will be the first to strike a blow against him if he is ever found."

"I can't-"

"Lying is not so hard," he said, returning to her, holding the glass for her to take. "And it's a skill you'll need."

"Is this another test?" she asked, not taking the glass.

"Test?"

"To see if I'm worthy of your trust."

He chuckled. "Everything and nothing is a test for that - I'll decide that based on everything you say and do, not just your response to discrete challenges. No, Miss Curnow, this is first and foremost an unfortunate necessity - you are your uncle's niece, and the Regent - and many of my brothers - wanted you tortured until you confessed your uncle's whereabouts. This will be for your protection."

She grimaced, gaze focused, unseeing, on the red peeking above Martin's belt.

"You will also never be allowed to mourn him in public," Martin continued, voice quieter, softer. "Though I will, of course, perform any necessary ceremonies if you require comfort to move on from his- absence."

"Shall I stop wearing black, then?" she asked, her voice sounding hollow even to her.

He hummed, tapping his finger against one glass. "If you like. Though perhaps just wearing a flash of red..."

He turned and set both glasses down again, then returned to her, working the bit of red fabric loose from his belt. She looked up at him, brows drawn together in confusion, then held very still as he looked her over. His eyes were narrowed in thought as he held the fabric up as if to wrap it around her upper arm, his lips pursing. He considered.

And then he looped it around her throat instead. Her breath caught. She didn't dare move as he tied it loosely around her neck, settling the knot in the hollow of her neck. The leather of his gloves brushed against the column of her throat, and she shuddered, lips parting. By the time he pulled away, her chest was heaving just enough to be noticeable.

"There," he said. "Black and red- I rather like it on you."

She reached up and felt at the fabric. It smelled like the leather of his belt and the starch that kept his uniform hanging so neatly on his frame. It was slightly worn, and the edges were unbound; threads tickled at her fingertips as she tucked the raw edges away.

"You look frightened, Miss Curnow," he said. "Don't you trust me?"

She eyed him, warily. "I'm still trying to decide," she said.

She watched as he grinned, then laughed and turned from her, going back to the table where he'd left his whiskey. "My estimation of you only increases," he said, bending to retrieve one glass.

"I'd like to know what you'll need of me if you become High Overseer," she said, trying to ignore the rush of pleasure that she'd felt at his laugh and his compliment. "To better prepare."

"Brush up on your geography, and read your Strictures," he said, turning back to her. He leaned against the table, sipping at his drink. "The way I see it, you'll be a second set of eyes and ears for me. Most of what I have to do will be matters of policy that will remain opaque to you, largely because the other Overseers would become... distressed, knowing that somebody not of our order was influencing me. Instead, to them, you'll be largely responsible for setting my schedule, arranging meetings, taking dictation on correspondence, making political visits when I can't."

"And I'll pay attention when I do," she said, slowly.

"Yes. Like any good assistant."

"Have you done something like this before?"

He chuckled. "Come now, Miss Curnow- you know the stories. Us Overseers are taken - _selected_ - as children, torn away from our homes as boys. When would I have gotten the chance?"

Callista flushed, reaching up to toy with the cloth around her throat absently.

"I'm just an observant, thoughtful man. And you will be the equivalent of the Lord Protector."

"That's not particularly auspicious, Overseer Martin," she said, slowly, brow drawing down.

He snorted. "Well, you can't handle a sword quite so well. I'm sure I'll be safe."

The look he fixed her with made her swallow and glance away; it was a challenge, a threat, and it was all edged with the quiet, mocking certainty that she wasn't dangerous at all.

She kept quiet about the marksmanship lessons her uncle had insisted on.

"You'll have to go before the Oracular Order, I suppose," Martin continued, voice light. "But they can be won over. I'm sure they'll like you, really - nothing too scandalous in your past, and you seem like the sort to use the Fugue Feast for contemplation instead of licentious behavior. The High Oracle will approve."

Callista felt her cheeks heating. "This will all take some- thought."

"Have you found other options?"

She dared a look back at him. What was he testing now? He was pushing so hard to bring her into his world, to isolate her- but if he was serious about what he'd want of her, he was going to leave himself vulnerable to her. It hardly made sense.

"No," she said, slowly. "But I'd like a reassurance that I'll be able to leave, if the work doesn't suit me."

"I promised your uncle I would help you."

"For reasons you still can't tell me," she reminded him, wringing her hands together. "And my _uncle_ would have insisted I have a way out."

He shrugged. "Then you can leave at any time."

She watched him, carefully, for any sign of deception or mockery. She found it hard to believe that, being privy to the High Overseer's secrets, she'd be allowed to simply walk outside the walls and be done with it all.

"And while I stay," she said, enunciating each word, "where _will_ I stay?"

"Your apartment, I'd assume," he said. "I'll do what I can to get your uncle's place out of Burrows's- Timsh's hands, as that'd certainly be nicer, but where you are now will have to do. After all, we don't have rooms for you here. This is a job for you, not life. Just a job."

_The apartment_. She took a deep, steadying breath.

"You'll be one of the most powerful men in the Empire," she said.

He grinned. "I will," he agreed.

She had opened her mouth to ask what that would mean for her when somebody knocked on the door and then announced, "The Lord Regent, here to see Overseer Martin."

Callista watched as Martin's expression changed minutely; it passed from surprise, to frustration, to a sharp, hawk-like interest. Wordlessly, he fixed his gaze on her, then motioned to his desk.

She frowned, and he lifted his brows. Slowly, she moved to the spot he had indicated. He motioned for her to straighten her spine, and she did. And then he called out, "Enter!" and turned to face the door.

Callista did her best to keep her face impassive as two city watch officers stepped into the room and took up positions on either side of the door. They were followed by a tall, thin man with a hooked nose, whose eyes were already narrowed in suspicion as he looked Martin over. When his gaze tracked across the room and settled on her, suspicion turned to outright disgust.

"Who is _that_?"

Martin smiled, pleasantly. "That would be my new assistant, Lord Regent. Miss Callista Curnow."

Burrows didn't bother hiding his sneer. "The traitor's niece, who you refused to allow my men to take into custody?"

"The same," Martin said with a shrug. "Can I get you a drink, Lord Regent?"

He glanced around the room, regarding the sideboard with the same disgust. "Nothing of the swill you have in here, certainly."

"Then I'll send my assistant to the cellars," Martin replied. "Would a fine Tyvian red suit?"

He wrinkled his nose. "I suppose."

"It's from Campbell's store."

"Of course it is."

"Please, sit," Martin said, taking the path behind his desk that let him pass close to Callista. He didn't touch her, or look at her, but something in the way he positioned himself made her relax, if only slightly.

Burrows moved to the fireplace. "I'd rather stand. This won't be a long meeting, I shouldn't think."

"Of course," Martin said, sitting all the same. "Miss Curnow, would you bring us up that wine, then?"

She licked her lips, a hundred protests ready, but another glance at Burrows - now with his back to her - made her say only, "Of course, Overseer Martin." The walk to the door was unnerving, the two primaries in the room ignoring her while the watchmen trained their gazes on her unerringly. As she left the room, she heard them fall into step behind her.

But an Overseer was waiting for her, just outside the door, and he motioned for her to accompany him. The guards stopped just beyond the door, taking up station on either side of it. She gratefully followed at the Overseer's heels until they were far enough away from the guards for her to feel safe whispering, "I need to get to the cellars."

"I heard," said the man in the mask. It was one of the men who had escorted her earlier - one of Martin's men. The muscles of her neck remained knotted in fear, but she was able to breathe a little easier. "I'll take care of it."

But they bypassed the stairs, instead hooking around into another hallway, emptier than the others she'd seen. The Overseer at her side produced a key from his pocket, and fitted it into the lock on an old, barely-maintained wooden door. It hid a small room filled with brooms and vinegar and old rags, along with bits and pieces of broken furniture.

"What-"

"Go in, and crouch behind the chair with the green upholstery. There's a crack in the wall. Listen through it. I'll be back with the wine."

She frowned, unmoving.

"Brother Martin's orders," he said. "I'm always to listen to these sorts of meetings. But I'll get the wine instead this time."

"Who-"

"Windham. Please, Miss Curnow." His shoulders were stiff and tight, and Callista feared violence for a moment - but he never reached for her.

She swallowed. "I want the key."

He handed it to her. "It comes back to me in exchange for the wine."

"Of course," she said, fingers curling around the metal. He'd given it so easily that her heart slowed faintly from its frantic pounding, and with one last glance, she began picking her way into the closet. He shut the door behind her, and she didn't hear a click of any latch.

The room was pitch black and filled with jumbled, sharp objects. She moved cautiously, trying to remember where the chair with the green upholstery had been. Its arms had been bare wood, she remembered, ending in blocky flares, and she skimmed her fingertips over what felt like a million wrong things, made of wood and moldy fabric and straw and metal. Finally, she found the chair, and beyond it, a small space next to the wall. She levered herself over the junk in the way, then crouched down.

A thin sliver of light beckoned. She bent towards it. She could make out voices, faint but distinct.

"Don't play the fool with me," Hiram Burrows hissed.

"I would never," came Martin's easy drawl. "But if you keep dancing around what you mean to ask me, how can I give you a straight answer? Tell me, Lord Regent - have you paid visits to the other candidates?"

"A few, but they're the common sort. Too pious, not clever enough by half, and all with alibis for the night of Campbell's death."

"While I agree with your assessment, I believe you'll find that I also have an alibi."

"What, your ridiculous story of being approached by Farley Havelock?"

"If you had been able to keep him in lockup, perhaps I wouldn't have found him drunk in a pub ranting about how his ship had been taken from him. I wasn't approached, Lord Regent - I was merely detained for an uncomfortable half hour trying to calm a paranoid, violent man who was hoping the Abbey would come to his aid."

"And yet you didn't arrest him, despite his clearly treasonous and heretical rantings?"

"I was but one man, Lord Regent."

There was silence for a moment. Callista pressed her ear closer to the crack.

"Now, what are you here for, Lord Regent?"

"_You know why_, you snake!"

"I'm afraid I don't know."

Callista heard the creak of wood as Martin no doubt leaned back in his seat. There was no other sound at first, then footsteps, then the whisper of Burrows' voice:

"Campbell was a fool; I know he must have left... records. And if anybody in this Order has them, it's _you_, Overseer Martin."

"That would certainly make sense," Martin conceded, without admitting a single thing.

"Then you and I must come to an understanding," Burrows hissed. "I don't know exactly what you've read, but I must insist on your... circumspection. And your cooperation."

"You have nothing to fear from me," he drawled.

Burrows growled, and Callista jumped as something crashed against the floor close on the other side of the wall.

"I think that we can be very useful to one another," Martin said, voice as easy as if he were discussing the weather. "I have no intention of harming your reign, should I become High Overseer. Is that enough?"

"I want the girl gone."

"The girl?"

Callista tensed.

"Curnow's niece. How much does she know?"

"That isn't your concern. She stays."

"I don't want a third party knowing-"

"_Campbell_ spilled his secrets regularly to his whores, Lord Regent, as I'm sure you're well aware. Now, he threw most of them in the river, but there might still be a few out there who- well. If you like, I could track them down. But Miss Curnow is not among their number. She will know what she needs to know, and nothing else, and she will _assist_. I hired her for a reason, Lord Regent. Or do you think me an idiot?"

"I don't know what to think of you."

Somebody knocked on the closet door, and Callista went rigid, holding her breath. She waited for the handle to turn, or for somebody to test the lock, but nothing happened.

"-assure you, Lord Regent, you have nothing to fear. I'm not a man for politics," Martin was saying.

"Bullshit. That's all this conclave is-"

Another knock, this time light, and Callista made out footsteps retreating. _Probably Windham_, she thought, and almost laughed with relief. Still, if she could sit a while longer and listen...

But they would notice, soon, if she didn't return. She stood carefully and picked her way back towards the door, groping blind in the dark. As she settled her hand on the chair arm to help her step over a bucket, her elbow spasmed, and she realized she was shaking from her ribs outwards. The Lord Regent wanted her out of the picture. Martin knew- _something_ of importance.

She reached the door, then stopped short of opening it. She hunkered down in front of the keyhole and squinted, trying to see through. There was an Overseer, in full kit and mask. She thought it might be Windham, but there was no way of knowing.

He turned, slightly, and she saw the bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm.

But any number of Overseers could have overheard their conversation. She sucked down a few quick, deep breaths. If this was a trap-

If this was a trap, there was hardly any way out.

She turned the latch and stood, slipping from the closet and closing the door behind her. The Overseer nodded to her, then kept his eyes averted as she locked the door. It was only when she came to stand a few steps away that he held out the bottle to her. She took it, but did not release the key.

"Do you always have this?" she asked, pitching her voice low.

"Often."

"I'd like to give it to him personally."

"Do as you will." He moved off in the direction of a staircase that wouldn't lead to Martin's chambers. Callista watched him go, then dusted herself off and made for the hallway of doors.

The two watchmen were still hovering outside of the door. Callista straightened her shoulders and nodded to them when she came close. Neither looked particularly friendly or welcoming, and neither reached for the door. She had just reached out her hand for the latch when the door swung open, Hiram Burrows stalking out with his face bright red. She jumped back out of the way and watched him as he moved, without slowing, to the exit.

His guards followed.

When Burrows was gone, she turned back to Martin's office. Martin himself stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

"A productive meeting, then?" she asked.

"A shame he couldn't wait for the wine," Martin responded, then shrugged and held out a hand. She passed the bottle to him, with the key tucked beneath it. He grinned and looked her over.

"A good choice," he said, then pushed away from the doorframe. "I'll keep it tucked away for our next meeting. Miss Curnow, shall I see you tomorrow to begin your denunciations?"

"I thought-"

"You're right, early morning would be best," he said, stepping back into his office. "I'll see you then."

The door shut. Callista was left alone in the hall, the red slash of fabric itching at her throat. Her shaking hadn't lessened. In the morning, she'd have to publicly denounce - in whatever way Martin recommended - her last remaining relative, the man who had raised her after she'd been orphaned. And after that, she could only hope that she'd finally earned enough trust to get some answers.

First, though, she'd have to survive a night knowing that she'd just stepped into uncharted territory.

The assistant to the future High Overseer, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Callista knelt in front of the small funerary urns, arranged on the uneven wood of the table tucked by her pantry. There hadn't been a better place for them, and she missed how stately and important they had looked like on her uncle's mantle. But as far as she could tell, they were untouched- and that was the only thing that mattered.

Two Overseers had brought them by the night before, hours after she'd returned from Holger. She'd entertained suspicions that perhaps their contents had been emptied and replaced with some other nameless person's remains, as if she'd never know the difference, but she'd checked the wax seals along the top and they were all just as she'd remembered them. No corrupting ocean air would get in and wet the ashes, turning them to meaningless sludge, and whoever was inside the urn had been inside for years.

The sun was rising outside her window, though the light wouldn't filter down between the close-packed buildings for another hour or more. She was already dressed for the day, in the same black suit she'd worn before, this time with her red blaze wrapped around her upper arm. It couldn't scratch at her skin there, and she could almost ignore it.

Her escort would arrive shortly. Along with the urns, the couriers had brought a brief message from Martin. A railcar would take her not to Holger but to Dunwall Tower, close to dawn. She had reasoned during her sleepless night while she paced and sat before the remains of her parents that the trial to come was for her own protection. It went beyond proving herself for Martin's employ - it was a bid for safety from the retaliation of the Regent and the Abbey. It would preserve her as nothing else could.

When the knock at her door came, she stood with creaking knees and crossed the tiny expanse of the room. She opened the door to see two masked Overseers looking back at her, and her gaze darted between the matching features of their masks, sculpted lifetimes ago and cast in bronze. _They must be heavy_, she thought as she opened the door enough for them to see how bare her room was - no heresy there - then shut it behind her and locked the door.

They said nothing as they led her down the narrow staircase, sidestepping the rats that had begun to make homes beneath the landings.

The light outside was watery and thin, but it was the first true light she'd seen since her uncle had left. It grew in weighty symbolism the more she thought about it, so she kept her eyes fixed ahead as they made their way from the narrow, twisted sidestreets to the main thoroughfare, large enough and arterial enough to have railcar tracks. One of the great metal contraptions sat quietly, its doors closed, it contents unknown.

This, she thought, would be a great way to kill somebody. Anybody who disappeared getting into a railcar would never be asked after. Their abductor would be too rich for it to matter.

But when the door opened, it was only Martin sitting inside, his mask nowhere to be seen. He beckoned her, and she climbed up the steps and settled on the plush bench across from him. The door closed, and they were left alone in dim electric light.

"Your men?" she asked, glancing to the door.

"Will begin their patrol from here."

"Are they here to search my apartment?"

Martin chuckled. "No. From what I understand, there's not much to search. No, there's a suspected witch living two buildings over from yours - they're going there."

"Combining an escort with a witch hunt," she said, grimacing. "Do they ever get their orders mixed?"

"Sometimes," he said, and reached for a side compartment. "Would you like a drink, Miss Curnow? To steel you for what's ahead?"

The car lurched into motion, and she held very still, tense and watchful, until she adjusted to the jolting acceleration.

Martin cocked his head. "Is this your first time in a car?"

"I haven't ever had the pleasure, no," she said. Her knees were pressed tight together, and her words were clipped. She'd spent many hours thinking about what she'd heard from the closet, and many more thinking of the danger she was in. The High Overseer was one the most powerful men in the Empire for a reason, after all.

She wasn't sure why she'd hoped for him to be a simple, pious man, or even a good one.

Martin pulled a bottle of brandy from the compartment, and Callista felt something else sink inside of her. If he'd had the bottle of wine from the night before, it would have been a nice gesture - one of openness, a sign that they had a moment to talk. Instead, it was only a drink.

"I don't want anything," she said as he reached for a glass.

He paused, considering her, then returned everything to the compartment, closed it, and reached for his pocket instead. He extracted a folded page and held it out to her between two fingers.

"Talking points," he said. "Your denunciation will be recorded, so its imperative that you say enough and not too much. These should help."

Callista stared at the page. "Recorded-"

"By Burrows' man - the one who runs the broadcasts."

Her world narrowed. "It's going to be _broadcast_-"

"I believe I said this would be a public denunciation?" he said, voice light. He waved the sheet in front of her.

Grimacing, she snatched it from him and unfolded it, smoothing it across her thigh.

She scanned the text, written in small, cramped penmanship. It was surprisingly simple. There were no lies, and only the most basic of truths. Still, every mention of treason and heresy stabbed at her, and when she'd read the whole thing over twice, she folded it and set it aside.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, voice chill in stark contrast to the heat in her brain.

Martin had settled back in his seat, one ankle propped on his knee. He had a new bit of red fabric around his waist.

"There's a slight chance Burrows will want to speak with you," he said.

"You've satisfied him that I'm not one your whores, then?" The words came out with unintended venom, fast and hot, melting the chill to sodden droplets.

Martin only shrugged. "I certainly did my best to convince him. I was wondering if you'd heard that part of the conversation. What else did you hear?"

"That you know secrets that the Regent would rather you didn't. That you met with a man who wants to overthrow the Empire. That I'll know only what I need to know."

He chuckled. "And may that always differ from what Burrows thinks you know. Obviously, I'd like him to not know that you were listening in. But I'm glad you heard all the relevant parts - and read between the lines. After all, I never _told_ him that I knew anything."

"A fool could've seen that you were just avoiding saying the words."

"Then he is less than a fool."

"I don't understand why you wanted me there," she said, flushing.

"Because," he said, sitting forward, "I'd like to not have to hide in front of my assistant. That makes you worse than useless - it makes you a problem."

"It seems more of a problem if you don't hide and then I tell others what I've seen," she said, turning to look at the high, slit window. His gaze felt uncomfortably heavy.

"Oh, of course. I'd very much have to trust you, and have that trust satisfied. So, Miss Curnow, hearing what you did yesterday - will you stay with me?"

Her attention jerked back to him. "I have a choice?"

"For now, yes. I wasn't being circumspect just for Burrows' sake - you'll find you don't know anything concrete enough to threaten me." He waved a hand, absently. "What will somebody say, if you go to them and tell them _the man who would be High Overseer spoke privately with the Lord Regent, and they quarrelled, and they know secrets_? Whoever you told - if you were lucky - would laugh and pat your head and say _of course, that is the way the world works_.

"Which is all to say - you have a choice. You can't hurt me, so if you choose to leave, I won't stop you. Like I said at your uncle's, you've created an interesting opportunity for the both of us, but you can always run."

Callista settled her hand over the folded paper. "After I do this," she said.

"You'll run?"

"I'll make a decision."

* * *

Dunwall Tower was incredible in its lofty majesty and in its endless patrols of guards and soldiers. Martin made an offhand comment about the coming visit of General Turnbull, but Callista barely marked it. She was caught, instead, between exhaustion, indecision, and dread as, accompanied by the escort that had met them at their car, they mounted the steps to the great entry hall, then turned towards a side door. Through it she could hear the crackling of arcing electricity.

The door opened to reveal a staircase around a shaft of open air that glowed and smelled of lightning on a dry day. Ropes of electricity occasionally crested the banister, and she could feel her hair beginning to stand on end. Callista watched, silent and tight-lipped, as their escort called down to whoever operated the great, sparking contraption to power it down.

"A prototype from Sokolov," the escort said, with a wicked grin. "Undefeatable."

"What does it do?" Martin asked.

"Turns a man to ash."

Callista grimaced and followed them up a winding flight of stairs, wondering if Sokolov, whoever he was, had considered the great usefulness of removing the process of funeral and cremation. It was certainly faster, if more terrible.

They reached the top of the stairs and stepped out onto a platform that was filled with metal machines with arrays of buttons and blinking lights. Across from the platform hung a massive portrait of Burrows. Callista looked around the space, which was lit only by a single bulb, and fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself.

There would be only a small audience for her speaking, she told herself. The whole city would hear her words, but the only people here to watch her say them were the escort, already bored, and Martin, and the man who ran the broadcasts. He was fiddling with something hidden by an array of metal boards held up at eye-level.

Callista rubbed at the creased paper in her hand.

"You must be Miss Curnow," said the man from behind the metal boards. It was the same voice she'd heard intermittently over the last month or so, since the broadcasts had begun; it was strange to hear him without the lead-in blaring. He leaned out from behind the boards. He was a normal-looking man, tall and thin.

She'd always imagined that he would be plump and well-dressed because of his usefulness to the state, but he looked harried. Worn. Like the men who lived in her building and went to the slaughterhouses every day.

"Come on, it's ready for you. Do you have something prepared to read from?"

"I do," she said, not moving.

"You don't have to get it right the first time," he said, "but we only have a few reels to work with. Notes will help."

"I'll get it right the first time."

He glanced behind her to Martin. Callista didn't turn to check his expression. Instead, she closed her eyes a moment, apologized to Geoff without words, then took a deep breath and went to the recording area.

She found a board set aside from the others and close to the microphone that had clips to hold papers in place. She carefully unfolded Martin's notes, glanced at them, then slipped them into the tabs. Her heart raced. Her breathing felt strange, though her chest didn't hitch or shudder. She felt bowed down, too tired to flee, too determined to do anything but move forward.

"Ready?" the man asked. There was an unexpected gentleness to the word, but when she looked up, his expression was impassive.

Callista nodded.

He reached forward and tapped a switch.

The microphone blinked on. The propaganda officer watched her intently. Leaning against the far wall, Martin glanced at her and offered her the faintest smile.

Callista took a deep breath.

"This is Callista Curnow speaking, niece of Captain of the Watch Geoff Curnow. Captain Curnow stands accused of murdering High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell on the 23rd day of the Month of Seeds. On the night of the 23rd day of the Month of Seeds, Captain Curnow came to my apartment. He confessed to me that he had done a violent and wretched thing. He confessed that he was a heretic and a murderer. I cast him out of my house and on the next day I delivered myself to the Abbey of the Everyman.

"I accuse Captain Curnow of murdering the High Overseer on that date. I accuse Captain Curnow of high treason. I accuse Captain Curnow of heresy. I disown him from my lineage."

Her voice began to crack, but no tears welled in her eyes. For a moment, she felt only a flare of anger - at Thaddeus Campbell, at Burrows, at the propaganda officer, at Martin, and at Geoff. Geoff, who had been foolish enough to kill a man who would be missed, a man who mattered. Geoff, who had left her alone.

"Captain Curnow, the man who was once my uncle, has been branded an enemy of the state. Do not give safe harbor to him. Do not render any assistance to him. To do so will be an offence punishable with hard labor, imprisonment, or death. Any individual with knowledge of his whereabouts or additional acts of treason he has committed is advised to report to the City Watch or the Abbey of the Everyman. A reward of fifty thousand gold coins is offered to anybody who delivers Captain Geoff Curnow to the custody of the state, alive or dead."

She fell silent, eyes burning, face tight. The propaganda officer stepped forward and switched off the microphone, then crouched to take the reel from its recording bed. She stepped back mechanically, watching him. The broadcast hadn't gone out yet. Nobody but the room had heard it. If she destroyed the reel-

Callista turned away as he loaded it into the machine that would broadcast her denunciation to all of Dunwall. She closed her eyes as it began to spin, and as her voice, high and thin, slid from the speakers and wrapped around her throat.

She only hoped that her uncle was already long gone.

Martin's footsteps were loud and steady, but they couldn't drown out the sound of her voice. Still, she struggled to focus on them, then on the warm, light touch of his fingertips against her elbow. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

He was looking to their escort. "Will that be all?" he asked. At the man's nod, he turned back to her with a faint smile, then dropped his hand and went to the head of the stairs.

Callista followed.

Her voice grew fainter as they left the platform behind, and it disappeared entirely as they stepped into the receiving hall. It was only a blessed moment of freedom, though; as they stepped into the yard, with its white stone and manicured gardens, her words echoed and bounced and boomed across the space. She kept her chin up and her eyes fixed straight ahead as Martin led her back towards the car.

* * *

She came to, as if awakening from sleep, on the plush seat with the railcar already moving beneath her. She didn't remember entering the car, or sitting. Callista blinked, frowning, and looked around.

"Good, you're back," Martin said.

"What happened?"

"Sometimes," Martin said, "the mind seems to shut off to shield us from pain." Glass clinked as he pulled the brandy and glass from the sideboard and poured her a finger's worth. "I've seen it before. How are you feeling?"

She grimaced. "I don't know."

He held out the glass for her, and she took it. "You did well, in there. Better than I had hoped. I don't think you left any room for doubt - your anger came through quite clearly."

"Good," she said.

She'd felt this way before. The recollection came slowly, and it didn't soothe her in the slightest. She'd moved through life without noticing what went on around her once or twice before - after her mother's death, her brother's. In her deepest grief, when she was worn down to almost nothing, everything else fell away.

It was easier that way. Martin was right.

"My uncle was a good man."

The words hung in the close air of the car. She swirled the brandy in her glass, then watched the surface jump as vehicle jerked, hitting a rail transition with too much force. Martin said nothing, and even with the sounds of the car muffled by the fine upholstery, she couldn't make out the sounds of his breathing.

Callista raised the glass to her lips and drained it in one burning, overwhelming swallow.

She lowered it to find Martin watching her, his expression softened. "I believe you," he said. "I let him go for a reason, Miss Curnow."

"So you _were_ there," she said, sagging in relief.

"Of course I was. I assumed you knew already. That he'd told you he'd met an Overseer, begged for his help- that the Overseer would help you too. As I said, Miss Curnow - I _owe_ him. The debt was created the moment he killed Campbell, and I told him as much."

"He told _me _very little," she said, staring at her empty glass. "I think he was trying to protect me. I didn't even know he'd killed a man before you told me, or that he'd been at the Abbey that night."

"He arrived unscheduled - their meeting wasn't for another five days," Martin said.

Callista lifted her head.

"It was past midnight - Campbell was with his whores. The delay in rousing him - finding him at all, since nobody was supposed to know where he was - wouldn't have been enough to set your uncle off, I think, but there had been an... incident involving his men, and several Overseers. It was part of an escalating series of clashes. I'm sure your uncle told you, at least, that the Watch doesn't appreciate the Abbey?"

"He told me. He told me to be careful around the Abbey, so as not to make myself a convenient target - that some Overseers might look for the opportunity."

"Your uncle understood quite a bit." Martin leaned forward and poured her another splash of brandy. "Some of us, on both sides I'm sure, looked at the alliance between Burrows and Campbell as a good sign. The Abbey is strongest with the support of the Watch, and vice versa. The Watch knows the city, and the Abbey can handle the heretics. But most saw it as opportunity for outright competition. If Burrows trusted Campbell, then the Abbey would prove Burrows didn't need the useless Watch. It was petty, and simple, and foolish. It's gotten more than a few men on both sides killed."

"I see."

"And then," Martin said, sitting back with a sigh, "there was the problem of your uncle being a _good_ man."

Callista frowned, cradling the glass in both her hands.

"He didn't trust Burrows, or Campbell, and there's quite a bit going on in his company that I'm sure he hated. Payoffs, blackmail... what was your uncle's opinion on the plague?"

"That it's horrible, and frightening," she said. "... But that half the places he was ordered to cordon off weren't affected by it."

Martin chuckled, dryly. "Exactly. Your uncle is a good man, Miss Curnow, and the people in charge of this city aren't. He was losing men, and respectability, because of Burrows' policies and that alliance. He went to Campbell about a single incident - something about a Watchman's daughter being dragged off as a witch despite being the most pious girl he'd ever known - and of course that must have gotten to him."

"He must have thought of me."

Martin nodded, slowly. "And Campbell was unavailable, then arrived smelling of cunt and perfume-"

"And my uncle killed him."

Callista stared at her brandy, then held it out to Martin. He took it from her, drained the glass, then put it away.

"And you were there."

"Only barely. I'd just returned from that incident with Havelock. I found your uncle alone in that room with a still-warm corpse, and I helped him get out."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?"

Martin snorted. "No. Out of gratitude, for getting Campbell out of the way." He canted his head, eyes narrowing as he considered her.

She returned his gaze, unwaveringly, too overwhelmed to respond.

She watched as Martin shifted, reaching one gloved hand into his pocket. "And because that gave me an opportunity to search Campbell's jacket- and find this," he said, pulling out a small book - the same small book she'd seen him reading the day before.

Wordlessly, he held the book out to her.

Callista looked at it, pressing her hands firmly against her thighs.

"Am I in too deep to turn back?" she asked, slowly lifting her head.

"If you were anybody else, yes. But I trust you this far. Take the book, though, and..." He shrugged. "Things get more interesting."

Callista looked back down to the soft leather cover of the book. She could leave it, and the car, and Martin. She could take her chances out in a Dunwall that was growing more bleak than ever, with plague eating at its edges - and where she was a free woman.

Or she could take the book and damn herself with knowledge too great for her, linking herself and her loyalty to an arrogant man whose cleverness terrified her, and who wanted - too much - for her to trust him.

"You trust me enough for this?" she asked.

"You are your uncle's niece," he said. "You're a good woman, Miss Curnow."

"And that makes you trust me?"

"I suppose it does." He smiled at her, and wagged the notebook at her. He lifted it an inch, tilted it back towards him. "But I understand."

"No," she said. "Give it to me."

Martin met her gaze, his wolfhound's smile curling the corners of his mouth. He leaned close as he pressed the book into her hands. "I'm very glad you chose me," he murmured, his voice plucking at her spine and making her shiver to her fingertips. She curled her fingers around the notebook, then cracked open the cover as he sat back.

She looked over the lines of tight, cramped scribbling, and found no words at all.

Only code.

"Campbell encrypted its contents, unfortunately," Martin said. "It's proving difficult to find the cipher, but I've been making progress."

"You don't know what's in it," she said, wonderingly, then looked up at him with a sharp glare. "You were trying to draw the Regent out!"

He laughed. "I wasn't about to tell him I didn't know _yet_! That would have gotten me hanged, or worse."

"Does he know about the book, though?" she asked, closing it and holding it up. "You just tucked it in your desk drawer. He could have-"

"He doesn't know it's a book. Campbell kept secrets from everybody. And besides, I usually keep it on my person, or safely hidden. Once I break the code, I'll store the information elsewhere. Give me some credit, Miss Curnow."

Her sudden flare of panic and outrage died down to a smoldering pile of coals, leaving her heaving for breath.

"But I'm glad to know you care," he added.

She tossed the book at him. He caught it.

"What you do affects both of us now," she said, looking away as she tried to school her expression back into some semblance of control. "I was taught to protect myself."

The car jolted once more, then screeched to a halt, throwing her forward. Martin caught her, easily, his arms folding around her as he took the force of her fall against his chest.

"They're having trouble remembering where to stop for your sidestreet," he murmured, breath warm against her ear. "Maybe you should sit on my side, next time - that way when they stop suddenly you go into the couch, and not across the aisle."

She lifted her head. She had a hand braced against his chest, which was broad and firm, the sensation of being held against him far from the comforting solidity that had been embracing Geoff. One of her knees had managed to land on the seat between his legs, but the rest of her was crumpled, relying on him to hold her up.

This close, she could see the pores of his skin, and a spot where he'd nicked himself shaving, just by one curved ear.

"I'll think about it," she murmured, as she pushed herself up. Martin let go of her. The door to the car opened, and as Martin stepped out, she took the opportunity to straighten her clothing.

He handed her out onto the street gently.

"When do you need me next?" she asked, feeling at the red band around her arm. It had slipped somewhat, down to her elbow. In the future, she'd have to pin it.

"Tomorrow, I'd assume, if only to get your education started," he said. "I'll send somebody. And Miss Curnow?"

She lifted a brow. "Yes?"

"I liked the red around your throat more. But it's your choice," he said, then hopped back into the railcar.

As it squealed away, Callista exhaled.

And let Campbell's notebook slip from where she'd slipped it inside her sleeve, held in place by her red armband, and into her hand.

She had, she supposed, maybe ten minutes before he realized it was gone.

She set off towards the river.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

She'd taken the notebook on impulse. She'd felt it as she fell against him, and she'd had enough time, and his attention had been so focused on coddling her in that self-assured, arrogant way of his, that he hadn't noticed when she nudged the book from where he'd tucked it halfway into his pocket. Now she held the book tight to her chest as she stepped into the Hound Pits, making her way to a shadowed booth in the far corner.

Geoff had taken her here once or twice, she realized as she sat down, insulated from the outside world by the noise of the other patrons. She recognized the stained glass and the stretch of bar. She even recognized the sound of dogs snarling far off in the distance.

Shaking, she opened the cover of the book. Inside there were still only endless lines of gibberish. She flipped through it, heart beating in her throat.

Outside, the announcement system blared, but it was only the propaganda officer speaking. She was spared the recitation of her own guilt as she scanned each page.

She came to a section, at last, that held some of Martin's notes. He hadn't written in cipher himself, but his handwriting was almost illegible. She was bent close over it, peering at it, when a woman cleared her throat.

Callista looked up to see the barmaid, an older woman with dull auburn hair pulled back from her temples, looking down at her with her brows raised in question.

"Planning on getting anything, miss?" she asked.

Callista flushed. "Ah- yes." Quickly, she twisted around in search of a menu board.

"Draft or sugared wine?" the woman asked, tapping her toe. "They're on special today."

"Sugared wine," she said. "And, ah- just something light. For food."

"Pickled quail eggs, then."

Callista nodded, feeling helpless - and foolish - as the woman turned away. The tavern by her apartment usually brought around free sandwiches this early in the day, and was fine with patrons lingering a bit before they ordered any drink, but apparently, this close to the river, things were different. Even before dusk, the place was half-filled. She sank further into her booth, holding the notebook close to her as she returned to its pages.

There- something she could make out. A list of names, each followed by another name. The first column were clearly Abbey men. The others were harder to place. Some were men, some women, some sounded old while others sounded very young indeed. A few men had no names beside them - only numbers.

Costs?

She tried to think back to the Abbey, and the number of colors displayed on the walls. But there were far more in the book than there were in that hall. Then she noticed the marks. Martin had drawn small stars next to about six names, and then crossed out one. His ink was different from Campbell's, dark and fresh.

Frowning, she turned to another page.

As she perused the book, her food and drink arrived, and she nibbled and sipped with barely a thought. Here was another page with Martin's handwriting. The only words she could make out were _Attano_ and _contact_ and _Burrows_ - and another number. She puzzled at it. Attano, the Royal Protector? The man imprisoned in Coldridge for the murder of the Empress?

What had Campbell been up to?

She slid her gloved fingers over the page, reading the gibberish and willing it to coalesce into something sensical. It refused, of course, and soon enough she put it down with a huff.

Picking at her food, she wondered what she'd find when she returned home.

Martin would likely have men waiting for her, she thought, and her apartment could very well have been destroyed. He'd be angry at her, surely. She'd tell him it was an accident, and remind him that she couldn't read it, anyway - and that it needed to be kept somewhere safe, not just in his pocket. Maybe he'd forgive her.

Or maybe her impulse towards secrecy and theft would get her re-educated by the Abbey.

As she drank her wine, she was reminded how very tired she was, how deeply exhausted. That was it- she could blame her exhaustion, her fugue state earlier, the tendency of those destroyed to seek out ways to ensure that destruction will come to an end, one way or another.

But if she could crack some of the code... she could use it against him, to protect herself. Or offer it to him.

As she was pondering, a large shadow fell across the table. She stiffened, looking up, expecting to find an Overseer's mask grinning down at her.

Instead, it was an older, thick-set man wearing a naval officer's jacket, his grey hair combed neatly.

"Curnow's niece?" he asked, his voice deep. His jaw was wide and his brow was narrow. It made him all the more imposing, seen from below.

She swallowed. "I don't-"

"He's an old friend," the man said.

"Oh. Then- yes, I suppose I am. Or was. Before-"

"I heard the announcement," he said, then sank into the seat across from her. "Wretched business. I was sorry to hear about it. He was a solid man."

She quickly slipped the notebook off the table and into the pouch she wore at her hip. It barely fit. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Farley Havelock. Until- very recently, I was an admiral. Your uncle served under me during his tour."

Callista blinked at him, wide-eyed. _Farley Havelock_, the man who'd been talking to Martin the night Campbell had been killed.

"He used to bring you here, when you were younger. Once or twice, anyway," Havelock continued. "I'm glad to see you're alright. Not everybody who makes announcements like that walks out of the Tower, you understand."

"Oh," she said, voice small.

Havelock worked his mouth a moment, as if trying to figure out what could be said, before he gestured at her picked-over meal. "It's on the house. In remembrance of a good man."

"Oh, thank you," she said.

"And if you ever need anything, I owe your uncle a favor."

Her brow drew together. "A favor?" Again? _Another_? And all for her protection? At least this time, she hoped it wasn't because of a man's death. The thought made her stomach churn. If Geoff had only looked to himself-

"It's from a long time ago, but I am an _honorable_ man," Havelock said. _Until very recently, he was an admiral_, she thought, and with it came vague memories of talk of a massing of ships outside of the harbor, and some upheaval in the ranks-

But it hadn't been publicized. She knew no details.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Your announcement- you said you had delivered yourself to the Abbey."

"Yes."

"Do you know an Overseer Martin?"

"I'm- not sure," she said. "They all look the same, with those masks."

"Of course." He tapped his knuckles against the table, then stood. "Well, Miss Curnow - you are always welcome here. And I hope your uncle is safe, where he is - he's a good man."

The treasonous sentiment hung in the air as he left, entirely welcome and soothing. Callista let her head fall against the back of the booth. How much did he know? How much of his posturing was just hope mixed with the sudden impotence of being a navy man with the sea taken from him? She couldn't tell, but as she fished for the notebook once more - perhaps she should find another place to study it - she realized she was deeply grateful for him.

Her pockets held no coin.

* * *

It was late evening when she made her first breakthrough. She'd borrowed a pencil and a scrap of paper from the bar, and had copied out some of the cipher - and as she had, something about the kinesthetics of drawing it turned her brain slightly one way, then another, and soon, as she turned the paper about and manipulated it, the words began to make sense.

_Attano_, it read, there- and that was where she began, checking her work against Martin's. _Attano out of Dunwall_, it read, and _contact by Rudshore_, and a sum of coin she couldn't hope to comprehend with a note that read _Burrows two-thirds_.

_Daud_, it read.

_Kaldwin_, it read.

_Girl_, it read.

She closed the notebook, her piece of paper tucked inside, and put it away. Her hands shook. Her mind spun. She was half out of her mind with exhaustion and grief, and now fear took hold, fear and terror and astonishment, and she stared at the bar where Farley Havelock spoke with a patron, laughing heartily even while his small eyes darted about the room.

Maybe if she told him, the treasonous man who would rebel, it would set some kind of justice in motion.

Maybe he was a good man.

But she barely remembered him; the man she knew was Martin. He wouldn't question the source of the information, either, and maybe together they could...

She stood. She had to return to her home, and demand that whoever he'd left to wait for her allow her to see him. Heart pounding, she fished the notebook out and clasped it between her hands, too afraid of pickpockets to leave it hidden.

The walk from the river back to the Legal District was long and harrowing, her over-worked mind conjuring the Outsider in every shadow. On side streets she heard the cruel laughter she'd always associated with members of the Hatters or other gangs, then turned to find it was Watchmen. She waited for hands to reach from the darkness and grab her, or for wolfhounds to bite at her heels.

But she arrived at her apartment untouched, and she raced up the steps. She stepped on a rat's tail halfway up, and it squealed and tried to bite her, but she was up and past it. There were more of them, though, than there had been a day ago.

She hardly noticed.

Panting, she got to her door and fumbled for her key. At a touch of her hand to the latch, the door swung open.

A light burned inside.

Her muscles twitched and jumped as she went from plummeting headlong to creeping forward, uncertain. Somebody sat in the main space of her apartment. The light was too dim for her to make out his features.

"It's only me," Martin said. "You can close the door behind you, if you like."

She melted with relief, and closed the door, sagging back against it. The chair creaked as he rose from it and strolled over to her. He settled one gloved hand beside her head and leaned in, caging her with his body, and suddenly the tension was back, stiffening all her muscles until they screamed. He looked down the length of her, to where she cradled the notebook.

"At least you weren't foolish enough to _lose_ it," he murmured.

"I cracked it," she breathed, pulse pounding in every inch of her, her cheeks bright and hot from the run. "I can decode it."

Martin didn't respond. He grew very still and very rigid, and his eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. Slowly, he reached for her with his free hand and plucked the notebook from her grasp.

"Don't ever steal from me again, Miss Curnow." His voice was low and rich, his tone edged with threat. He leaned in closer, trapping her body with his. "Not if you want this arrangement to work out. I can be a very generous man, and I can be a very cruel one."

"I _cracked_ it," she repeated, lifting her chin, refusing to quail. "And there's something in there about paying Daud - and on the same page, it mentions the late Empress. And the Lady Kaldwin."

Martin made a low, strangled sound in his throat as he leaned his head forward against the wood of the door. She could hear his breathing, and it wasn't the same easy, composed rhythm as she was used to. She reached out to touch the forearm he had braced by her head, and found him trembling.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"I tucked my notes in. You can see for yourself."

He laughed, thinly. "You are a very clever, very naughty girl, Miss Curnow," he breathed in her ear. "I could have had you arrested for this. Or did you know that I wouldn't risk anybody else in my order getting their hands on that book?"

"I didn't think about it," she whispered, lips curling in a hysterical half-smile. "I just- saw an opportunity."

"What would your uncle think?"

"That I'm going to get myself killed at this rate."

"Smart man, your uncle," he said as he pulled away at last, taking the heat of his body with him. Callista found herself stepping away from the door, following him, though they gained an inch of distance between them.

Martin was looking at her with something very close to pride.

"Smarter woman," he added, then turned and went to her chair. He dropped into it, opening up the notebook on the page her notes propped open. He pulled out the paper and unfolded it, smoothing it over his knee.

Callista took a few deep, steadying breaths, then went to join him. She stood hovering at his shoulder, peering down.

"I went to a place called Hound Pits Pub," she said, "and I sat there for hours working at it."

"Havelock's place," Martin mused, but his voice was distant as he traced his finger over her work. "You have very nice handwriting, Miss Curnow."

"It's important for a governess," she replied.

"I'll have you write my dispatches, I think," he said with a soft chuckle. "... This is good work," he added, glancing up at her. "I think I see the logic, so I can replicate it. Though..."

Callista shook her head. "It's hardly safe here with me."

"No, I suppose not. And I can't have you in my offices all the time. People are already talking. There's been a few accusations that I'm not _restricting the wanton flesh_ as much as I ought to be."

She flushed. "That's-"

"An understandable interpretation," he said, smirking. "Does the thought excite you, Miss Curnow?"

Her mouth went dry as she remembered what it had felt like to fall against him, and how his voice in her ear didn't make her scared so much as it made her alert and oriented only to him. "If you're to be High Overseer, we need to _avoid_ those sorts of accusations," she said, voice hoarser than usual.

"If I'm to be High Overseer," he said, leaning back in his seat and gazing up at her, "I'll need to finish decoding the page with the list of names. I need to know whose strings I can pull. And I'd appreciate your help. I was working from things I knew, trying to derive rules working backwards, but if you can help me understand your method-"

"My method is going without sleep and suffering the loss of my last living relative," she replied, curtly.

His smile faded and he looked her over, frowning. "Going without sleep?"

"None last night, and very little the two nights before," she sighed. "Add sugared wine and the certainty that you'd have me found and killed-"

"I wouldn't do that," he said.

"No?"

"No," he said, pushing up from the chair. "I've found I quite like the idea of having your assistance. Even more when you do reckless but brilliant things like this." He waggled the notebook at her. "Though I'd appreciate more caution in the future."

"Of course," she said. "I... don't like the feeling of being hunted."

"Good that you learned that early on. Go on, sit. Or sleep, if you want. I'll work on this."

"Here?"

"If you'll allow it," he said, watching as she lowered herself gingerly into the chair. "I don't have the luxury of going to a pub, at least not in uniform. And I grow weary of my office and everybody who has come to offer their allegiances and test my weaknesses."

She considered, face creased by a light frown. She'd never shared this apartment with anybody - since she'd moved in, she hadn't brought any men home, or even spent a night sitting up with Geoff. Martin's very presence was surreal.

But the idea of being alone...

"I want something in return," she said, propping her elbow on the arm of the chair, pillowing her cheek in her hand.

He snorted. "You're not in the best bargaining position. I could still have you dragged in on theft charges."

"But you won't."

"... No," he said, chuckling dryly.

"And I think there's a fair chance I'll wake up to find most of my whiskey gone," she added.

"Hardly. What do you want?"

"Dispensation to leave the city for a day or two." She couldn't help her yawn, even though it closed her eyes and didn't help her look determined in the slightest.

Martin's footsteps were soft as he approached the chair. "Granted. Where to?" he asked, slipping a hand lightly behind the arm she wasn't leaning on. He nudged her up, then towards her little bed tucked in what wasn't so much a separate room as an alcove set off by a partial wall and some furniture.

"My family has - had - a house, west out of the city, overlooking the ocean. He sold it, but last I heard, a company or a barrister had it. It's unoccupied. And with the plague, it's probably unlet."

"Do you think Geoff is there?" Martin asked, letting go as she sat.

Her brow furrowed. "I... hadn't thought of that," she confessed. "I only wanted to go to have some space to think."

Martin hummed his assent, then knelt and caught one ankle in his hands. He eased her shoe off, gloved fingers brushing the arch of her foot. "If he's smart, he won't be there," Martin said as he worked, moving to her other foot. "So see it as a victory, if the house is empty."

She nodded, watching through half-lidded eyes as he stood. Her toes curled in her stockings.

"Go to sleep, Miss Curnow. I'll write your dispensation and have it delivered tomorrow morning. Your timing is perfect - with what you've given me tonight, I'll be a very busy man for the next few days before we enter conclave."

"Conclave?"

"Where the few of us who haven't pulled back from the High Overseer's seat go into conference with the High Oracle for however long it takes for them to see who will emerge victorious," he said, moving back into the main part of the room where she could only see him in brief glimpses. "There are rounds of voting, too - we all must reach a consensus, or leave."

She made herself remove her gloves. Then she paused, and forced herself to stand and gather her nightclothes, before moving towards the small washroom to change.

"Is it dangerous?" she asked, before shutting the thin door.

"Yes and no," came his muffled response. "But it's not anything you need to worry about."

"And my lessons, to prepare me to be your assistant?" she asked as she perfunctorily stripped out of her suit and corset and changed into her knee-length shift.

"Do what you can here. I'll let you know when it's safe to come work at the Abbey. Besides," he added, and she could imagine him waving a hand dismissively, "you've already proven how good of an assistant you'll be. You just need to get a bit more practiced."

When she emerged from the bathroom, he wasn't looking at her. He was ensconced in her chair once more, peering at the pages in the notebook, her notes spread out on his thigh.

"There's paper and pencil in the desk drawer," she offered.

He glanced up, with no noticeable reaction to seeing her so undressed. It made her feel at ease. "Good."

"Wake me if you're leaving," she said. "So I can lock the door after you."

She didn't mention that she had the only key tucked inside her loose fist, and that she'd sleep with it. It was a sensible precaution that, if he were a reasonably honest man, he would never know about.

"Of course," he said. "Now get some rest."

Callista smiled, muzzily, then went to her bed and settled down into it.

She closed her eyes and was rewarded with expansive, weightless darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Martin woke her sometime after midnight to let him out. She didn't hear most of what he said to her, but she went back to sleep knowing that he was pleased, excited, that his eyes had glittered and that the way he'd clasped her upper arm - where last she'd worn his color - had been fervent and trusting.

She went back to sleep vaguely pondering their strange circumstances, and how they seemed doomed to trust each other despite her - and, she suspected, his - aversion to placing faith in people.

When she woke again, it was late morning. The city was throbbing and alive outside her window, and it took her a moment of rubbing at her cheek and eyes to realize she'd been roused by the blare of the announcement system. The recording of her voice vibrated the windows, and she scowled and dragged herself from bed only because the banging and creaking of her pipes when the taps were on could drown it out a bit.

She washed and dressed and pulled her hair back, then walked a short circuit around her apartment. She stopped at the urns, touching one lightly. Should she take them out into the countryside? The thought was lovely, except that she knew that, so close to the ocean, the sea might infiltrate the urns despite their wax.

It was too risky, she decided.

By the door, she found a plain envelope on her floor. She crouched and picked it up, feeling the crackle of heavy paper inside of it. She opened it carefully with the tip of a knife, then pulled out the dispensation inside.

It allowed her two days outside of the city under the Abbey's permission. It would only take her ten miles from Dunwall - beyond that there were periodic border patrols operated by the other cities of Gristol, worried about the spread of the plague - but she didn't need more than that. It would get her out past the walls of the city, and it would allow her to hire a carriage.

It could also, she supposed, put her at risk - so when she packed a small bag, she made sure to fit her knife in it, as well as a pistol she hadn't practiced with in years. She had kept it cleaned and oiled, though, and as she fingered the grip, she couldn't help the shiver that went through her.

Geoff had given her the pistol, of course, and taught her how to use it.

She ate stale bread and drank faintly foul water, then looked around her room once more. Leaving it still seemed dangerous; it could be ransacked when she returned, or worse. But the drive to get outside the city was too great, and so she locked the door behind her and went down to the streets below. She set off for the western wall.

The journey to the edge of the city took the better part of two hours, even with the few, experimental public railcars that were running. At the guardpost, they studied her dispensation carefully, and one of the men eyed her. Both had to recognize her name, and she supposed the one watching her had known her uncle.

Neither bothered her, though. She left the city shortly after noon, and caught a horse-drawn carriage out into the country.

Horses had been banned from Dunwall when she was a girl, the city growing too mechanized to need them, but they were still necessary out where whale oil didn't power the lamps and where the roads were unpaved, making the installation and operation of railcars impossible.

She reached her family home as the sun was just beginning to set. The roar of the ocean was distinct and soothing as she walked the winding path to the house on the bluff. It was two stories, and technically smaller than Geoff's old townhouse had been, but it seemed gigantic out here, with the closest town half an hour away by foot. Its windows were covered in grime, but they were unbroken, and the plants that grew about the building and clung to its stonework had yet to undo the architecture in any meaningful way.

Her key still worked, and she nudged the door open.

The air inside was stale and dusty, and the house creaked and groaned with the wind outside and the weight of itself. She focused on every noise as she walked through each room, each hall, looking for any sign of a visitor - welcome or otherwise. But there was nobody; only moldering curtains and empty bedframes, only a few of which still held mattresses.

Geoff wasn't there, but neither was anybody else. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and went to the back door.

It opened up onto a patio that ran up to the edge of the bluff. The railing there, which her father had built, was warped and cracked now from the salt air. She didn't dare touch it, for fear of splinters. Instead, she sat down near the edge and drew her knees up to her chest, and stared down at the tide.

One of her cousins had died down there. She'd watched it happen. They'd been playing in the surf; Callista had been a few years older and should have been watching more closely, but she'd still only been a girl. Her brother was very sick at the time, and she'd been distracted, picking her way between the towering black rocks on the beach, looking at sea creatures trapped in pools of water, finding bits of shell and stone she could take to show her brother up in his room.

Her cousin, Delphinia, had gone into the water. She'd giggled and splashed, and she'd gone out to bob in the swells of the waves before they reached the shore. They all knew how to swim, and all of them had gone into the sea a hundred times or more, except for her aunt Viola who still held that the sea was an unholy space to be conquered, used, but never enjoyed.

Delphinia had been laughing until suddenly the laughter had stopped. She'd never so much as screamed Callista's name, and Callista hadn't known to turn from where she stood atop one of the smaller rocks, poking at barnacles. She never saw Delphinia's head go under, then crest the surface, then go under again.

It was only when she'd turned around to ask if Delphinia would like her to join her in the surf that she had realized that surf was empty, her cousin dragged out to sea.

There had been others on the shore that afternoon; Viola had been there to watch her dear daughter, and had shrieked and howled when she'd realized that her child wasn't just playing, but had disappeared beneath the waves, dragged out fast by a riptide none of them had known to expect. Something below the surface had given way, opening up a new underground chanel for the surf, creating a new sucking wound. Geoff had noticed Delphinia swiftly moving away from shore, faster than she could have swum, and had come running down to the shore, but he hadn't been fast enough to follow her, to save her.

Nobody had ever blamed Callista, who would have died if she'd seen and followed her cousin out - but Callista had spent years thinking of her cousin's silence, of the sudden change in the tides, and she'd thrown out all the stones and shells she'd collected that day, too afraid to bring death into her brother's sickroom.

He'd died a week later, anyway.

The tide was in, now, roaring at the bottom of the bluff. It had always been a foolish idea to play down there; the tide could rush in too fast, cutting off the exit, trapping whoever was left against the rocks and beating them against the stone until they died, until their blood stained the water an evanescent red. It hadn't mattered about the riptide. It hadn't mattered about the underwater chambers below the beach.

She turned away from the bluff and went back into the house, lighting the lamps that still had some oil left in them. She made herself an island of light in the kitchen. As she went in search of other lamps and fresh cans of oil, she found little things out of place. All were items her uncle had sold along with the property, trying to sweeten the deal and to lessen the burden he had to carry. A dresser with a few drawers pulled out an inch or two; a bedframe moved across the floor, its legs cutting grooves in the thick dust; a chest left unlocked that she had never been able to open.

It told a story. Her uncle had been here, gathering supplies. The pantry was nearly empty now, its cans of brined hagfish gone, and everything else thrown away or rotted years ago. Her uncle had gathered clothing, maybe mementos, definitely food, but soon after, or perhaps before, the Watch or the military had arrived. They'd searched the old, empty house. There had been no violence.

They'd all left.

As night fell, Callista climbed the stairs to what had been her room and listened to the creaking of the house as another coastal storm came in, light but insistent. The house rocked around her. She tested the mattress and found it damp and filled with mildew, then sighed and went to one of the linen closets. It, too, was filled with decay. It took over half an hour of searching before she found clean, dry blankets. She made herself a bed in the kitchen, and drifted off to sleep listening to the roar of the tide below.

* * *

In the morning, she heard footsteps.

She was sitting out on the patio once more, eating out of the last can of jellied eel. The food was slimy and tasted only of salt, but she hadn't eaten in nearly a day. She washed it down with old sour beer she'd found in the cellar, and barely noticed the footsteps until they crossed the threshold from the kitchen to stone-paved deck that jutted out above the cove.

Callista tensed, then turned.

Geoff stood a few feet away, and while his eyes were distant and haunted, his mouth broke into a wide grin. He came a few steps closer.

"How did you get out of the city?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Slowly, Callista rose to her feet. "I have dispensation. From the Abbey. Uncle-"

"Good girl. Smart girl," he breathed, then crossed the space between them and drew her into his arms.

"Why are you still here?" she asked, voice trembling. Her eyes closed. She couldn't manage the surge of relief she felt, or the accompanying surge of fear. It was so dangerous for him to be here-

"Come with me," he said.

She frowned against his chest where he'd tucked her close.

"Come with me," he repeated, bowing his head against the crown of hers. "I should have taken you with me that night, but it would have been too difficult to get us both out. Now we can both go. If we can get to Pottershead-"

"That's hundreds of miles away!" she breathed, drawing back and frowning.

"You're young, you're strong enough," he said. He pulled away, clasping her shoulders with both hands. "We can get a ship to Serkonos there."

She shook her head. "The border the other cities have set up- they won't let us through."

"Tell them you work for the Abbey."

"And I'm going to _Pottershead_? Maybe if we went towards Whitecliff, but- but I don't actually-"

"We can get there. Come with me, Callista."

He stared at her, desperately, his hands growing tighter on her arms.

Callista closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was alone on the floor of the kitchen, the sun barely risen. Her arms ached from being pillowed against wood, but when she rolled up her sleeves she found no bruises.

She was alone.

Geoff had left days ago.

Sighing, she got to her feet and made one last tour of the house before gathering her things and beginning the journey back to Dunwall.

* * *

The tears never came during the carriage ride back to Dunwall, even though she was alone at the time and so could have let free the intermittent heaving of her chest or the tightening of her throat. When she arrived, her face was as narrow and wan as always. The guards looked at her with pity, no doubt wondering why anybody would return to the city, but she ignored it and passed back into the hulking mass that had become her home.

She was met by two Overseers with a private railcar. She half-expected to see Martin inside, but it was empty.

"Have they gone into conclave yet?" she asked, looking at one of the masked men.

"No," he replied. "At midnight."

"Then take me to Holger. I'd like to speak with Overseer Martin, about my trip out. I have... news about Captain Curnow."

He gestured to the car. "He's waiting for you."

Callista nodded, then stepped up into the car with her small satchel of belongings, settling in with her head leaned back against the seat.

The trip was short the railcar eating up the miles between the wall and Holger. As it took her into the heart of Dunwall, she found herself relaxing. It had been a frightening dream, seeing her uncle and hearing him talk about fleeing. She didn't want to run. Dunwall, for all that it had taken her years to adjust to its smog and its narrow streets and its hidden horrors, was her home.

She wanted to bring Geoff _back_, not run with him to the far corners of the world.

When they reached Holger, she stepped out into a dark grey world, where the sun was blotted out almost entirely. It was impossible to tell what time of day it was, except that it wasn't night. She followed her escorts into the square, then up towards Martin's offices. Eyes followed her. She didn't wear black this time, or Martin's band. Did they think she was no longer his assistant, or were they looking for some weakness they could use to take her out of the game?

She was too tired to think about it. She knocked at Martin's office door, and quickly slipped inside when he called her in.

Martin rose from his desk as she shut the door behind her, and he threw her a quick smile as he lifted the bottle of wine she'd brought up the other night from where it sat on the edge of his desk and set about uncorking it. "I'm glad to see you back, Miss Curnow. Was your trip restful?" His hand worked nimbly against the bottle, and she watched them free the cork from the glass.

"It was... enlightening," she said, coming closer to him. When he held out glass for her, she took it and held still as he poured her a measure. "And you? Have you made progress?"

"Yes. Your help has been invaluable." He filled his own glass, then lifted it and clinked it against hers. "To the conclave," he said, then tipped his head back and drained half his glass.

Callista was more moderate, sipping at her wine and trying to appreciate its qualities. She hadn't had proper, unadulterated wine in years, though, and she only vaguely recognized it as _good_.

"You look haunted, Miss Curnow," he said, and she lifted her head again.

"... I saw signs that my uncle had been there. At the house."

"I'll do what I can to turn people's attention away from it, then."

"It's too late. It had also been searched. There weren't any signs of violence, though." She sank, slowly, into the chair in front of his desk. "I almost thought I saw him, once - but I think he's long gone."

"He made it through the hardest part - getting out of the city. I'm sure he'll be fine." Martin leaned his hip against the edge of his desk, looking down at her. He wore a small frown.

"Did you... set up a way to contact him? When you helped him leave the city?" she asked, looking up at him with what felt like painfully wide, vulnerable eyes.

"I didn't help him leave the city," Martin said, voice quieting. "So no. I don't know where he's gone."

She grimaced, bowing her head. "A bit much to hope for, I suppose."

Martin set his wine aside. He leaned forward, catching her chin beneath one finger and tilting it back up. His eyes - a very pale, piercing blue - were fixed on hers. "You are safe here. Always remember that. And when I am High Overseer, I will do what I can to find your uncle, if you want him to be found."

"You owe him?" she asked with a faint, tired laugh.

"No. I owe _you_." His lips curled. "Your help has been invaluable. Two of my opponents have dropped out of consideration."

"I'm glad," she said, and even as she dropped her gaze again, she could feel herself strengthened, just enough to keep breathing. He owed her. That was a good place to be.

He smiled, then let his hand drop. He leaned back, considering her, then rose and circled around her chair. "Let me take your mind off things, Miss Curnow," he said, settling his hands on her shoulders. "The last week has been a nightmare for you, I know."

She made a small sound as he began to knead at her muscles, hands slow and firm. She tensed under his touch, even as a small pool of heat formed in her belly. His fingers dug in. A flare of pain rippled from her shoulder down her arm, and she gasped.

The crushing pressure on her mind stilled.

"Are you okay?" Martin asked, voice soft.

"... Yes," she said. "Yes, I am."

He pressed in on the muscle again, which jumped then turned rock solid beneath his touch. He massaged his thumb along it, then paused. Slowly, he began to dig it in.

"And now?" he asked, his voice taking on a lower note.

The pain began again, sparking from her shoulder down to her elbow. It obliterated everything in its path, reducing her to that one bright line of pain. It was a relief, and her breath hissed from between her teeth as she straightened up, pressing into his touch.

"Yes," she said, more firmly.

"I have an idea," he said. "Do you trust me?"

She craned her head back, looking up at him. His eyes were half-lidded, and he looked at her with the utmost concentration. There was nothing lascivious there, nothing wanting, only complete focus.

"Sometimes," she said.

"Would you trust me if I said I know a way to take your mind off things, that is very effective but not entirely gentle?"

There was still no sensual glint in his eye, no voluptuous smile. Her shoulder ached where he'd pressed into it, and she rolled the joint.

"No habber weed," she said, and that, at last, produced a bark of a laugh from him.

"No, not that. Do you trust me?"

She lifted a brow. "What is it?"

"I've found it doesn't work half so well the first time if you're expecting it."

Callista searched his face for any threat of violence, and found none. There was only that concern, that interest. Slowly, she nodded. "I trust you."

"Then stand up," he said, removing his hands from her shoulders entirely. "Stand up, lean over my desk, and balance your weight on your palms or your forearms. Whichever is easier. Mind the wine."

She had forgotten her glass, and set it down with trembling hands next to his. She watched as he circled to the edge of his desk and picked up both glasses, taking them to the sideboard. Swallowing, she stood and bent forward, her knees closing together tightly on instinct. Her elbows bumped against the wood, and she realized she was shaking.

The image came to her of Martin pinning her to the desk, kissing at her throat, dragging her breeches down, and the force of it made her close her eyes and press her hands harder against the wood. It was an enticing thought. A stupid, foolish thought to be sure, but enticing, and-

Martin's hand came down hard on her ass, and she yelped, eyes flying open. He lingered there, fingers rubbing lightly at the swell of her hip, until she'd lowered down from where she'd risen up on her toes. Without a word, he pulled back and struck her again.

The blows weren't hard; they didn't have the force to send her hips snapping into the desk, or to even move her body. But they were firm, and repetitive, and by the sixth she could feel her skin beginning to sting. She held her breath at first, then began to gasp, sucking in deep breaths.

Martin said nothing, only alternating which hand he used, which side of her ass he struck. Callista stretched forward, curling her fingers over the far edge of his desk. Her awareness narrowed down to the smack of his gloved hand on her clothed rear, to the sting and throb of her skin, to the way her heart seemed to pound and migrate down into the pit of her belly.

Nothing else mattered.

Her mind cleared. Gone were thoughts of Geoff, or of her small apartment, or of a little black notebook that spoke of the Lord Protector and the Knife of Dunwall and the child Empress. She barely heard the sounds she made, the whimpers and gasps, until they turned to shuddering sobs that she didn't know the origin of. Martin's blows fell off, coming slower and slower, softer and softer, until they stopped entirely.

She crumpled forward, weight supported by his desk, face pressed to the wood as she cried.

It was the painful, wrenching sort of sobbing that drew her closer and closer to peace. She knew the sort, and she let herself linger in it. There was no room in her for thoughts of all her pains and fears, only for the expulsion of it.

Her body shuddered with each new burst of tears, her eyes swelling and her cheeks filling with blood. Her fingers curled into the wood, her toes dug into the worn leather of her shoes. When she slid down to her knees, Martin caught her. He lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the small couch in front of the hearth and settled her there. He brushed strands of hair from in front of her face, then left her alone for a moment.

He returned with a small plate of pastries and a glass of wine, setting them before her on the low table before the fire.

Her sobbing slowly quieted to just the constant hitching of her breath, and he seemed to be reassured by that. When she only began shaking every two or three breaths, when the tears began to dry before they renewed, he went to his desk and pulled out his little black notebook. She watched him through the shade of her eyelashes, then nestled down against the cushions of the couch and focused only on her breath.

Eventually, the last of her trembling left her. She opened her eyes and stared at the small, glowing hearth. Slowly, she sat up and nibbled a pastry, swallowed down another mouthful of wine.

Her ass ached as she moved. She imagined pulling down the fabric of her knickers and seeing red handprints left there. The thought made her shiver, and she glanced over to Martin.

He looked as if nothing had happened. He worked diligently, and only glanced up after she'd stared at him for the better part of a minute.

"How are you feeling, Miss Curnow?" he asked.

"Better," she said.

He inclined his head, faintly. "I'm glad. You should return home and rest. The conclave-"

"It's in a few hours, isn't it?"

"It's very soon, yes. I won't be able to see you while it's in progress."

Callista drew herself up from her seat, taking her wine and dainties with her. "How long does it last?" she asked as she took careful, stiff steps towards the sideboard.

"The shortest ever was two days. The longest was a month."

The plate clattered as she set it down - she was shaking again. "A month-"

"It won't take a month," he assured her. "And I'll send for you the moment we're out. I promise."

She looked at him, with his finely starched uniform, his bleached collar, his carefully combed hair. He would emerge triumphant - she was sure. A line from her dream came back to her, Geoff telling her that she could use her connections with the Abbey to get out of the city, to get out of Gristol.

Her thoughts went to Martin's hand, the unrelenting blows that should have been a punishment but had been a salvation.

Shouldn't she _want_ to get out?

"If I don't come?" she asked, softly.

He looked at her a moment, then leaned back in his seat and turned his attention back to the book. "I'll be disappointed. And you will have to be very good about never telling anybody about our secrets."

"I thought I was in too deep," she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

He glanced up again, as if unable to help himself. "Are you?"

Callista took a deep breath. "... I am, yes."

"Then I'll send for you. Take care of yourself, Miss Curnow."

She thought she saw his shoulders relax, just a little.

"Thank you," she said, then let herself out of his office.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The door to her apartment building was barred with a bright red clamp that stood as tall as a man and that shone in the lamplight. The walls around it were painted with the flash of paint she'd seen more and more often, on more and more doors.

_Plague_.

A tall, thin man with a pinched face stood a short distance off, his fine clothing in stark contrast to the rundown tenements on the street. He spoke with several men of the Watch, reading from a notepad, hardly looking at them for how high his nose and chin were lifted in distaste. One of the landlords, then, coming to see what was happening to his investment?

She knew better than to fling herself before the Watchmen milling about in the streets around the building. Where they listened to the man with a starched cravat and money in his pockets, they would mark her as infected for having lived inthe building. They would ship her off to Rudshore, where she heard treatment centers were being set up. But what treatment centers could exist in the newly-flooded district?

The thought occurred to her to go to the thin man and request his help, using all the grace she'd had to learn to work with the rich merchants of the city, but her luck and skill felt worn dangerously thin, and she refused to put herself any closer to the Watch.

So Callista kept her distance, the glorious relaxation Martin's work had given her evaporating, replaced with a bone-deep dread.

Holger would be locked down now, even if it wasn't an hour-long walk without a railcar. She couldn't get there in time. Martin was shut away from her now, and she was left with the knowledge that not only had she lost the ashes of her parents, she'd also lost her only shelter. She had nothing except for the small satchel she still carried from her trip out of the city. Desperately, she felt for the butt of her pistol inside of it. Her fingers closed around it, and she sighed in relief.

There were several explanations for the sudden seizure of her home. The first was the simplest, the most trusting - that somebody in the building had begun bleeding from the eyes. That here, in one of the city's richer districts, it mattered when even the poorest people crowding at the edges in their tiny tenements fell ill, if only to spare their landlords from exposure.

The second was more cynical - that an ally of the late High Overseer, in a position of power, had lashed out at her either for her relation to her uncle or her connection with Martin.

The third, which she only realized as she turned and began walking away, was that Martin had planned this. It took her two blocks to move past that simple idea and towards possible explanations. He wouldn't do it to punish her, or torture her. At least, she didn't think he would. The care he'd shown her that evening made the thought impossible to hold onto. But maybe he'd left something in her apartment the other night, when he'd sat up late working on his code breaking. Maybe he'd left notes behind that she hadn't seen. Maybe this was simply the easiest way to hide his moves.

She tamped down the anger that flared in her breast at the thought. How careless, thoughtless, cruel-

Callista arrested her rage before it could build. It was useless, and she was tired.

No matter who it had been - if it had been anything but horrible, terrible luck - they had timed it perfectly, cutting her off from sleep and safety in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was only blind luck that she wasn't inside even now. The presence of the Watch meant the quarantine was fresh, and that there were still living people inside. The integrity of the perimeter couldn't be trusted yet. That meant it had gone up just that day, possibly only a few hours ago. It'd be two days at least before the Dead Counters were called.

She scrubbed at her face, exhaling shakily. She had to think - there were still hotels in the city, but they had become strictly segregated. Some took only the wealthy. The vast majority were more like charnel houses, where the poor and sick went to die. Geoff's house was still sealed under orders of the Regent, no doubt. Martin was unavailable.

Her thoughts tended back towards the pub on the river, and her uncle's disgraced friend.

Farley Havelock owed her uncle a favor.

She turned towards the river, and tried not to let the panic overtake her. Havelock owed her uncle a favor, but he was already under suspicion. Burrows had mentioned his discussion with Martin as if it were treason by its very existence. And where she knew why Martin owed Geoff - that little black notebook, the very need for the Feast - she had no clue as to how Havelock was ensnared. Going to him, asking him for help, could open up herself - _and Martin_ - to new attacks.

But the streets weren't safe, and she had no other harbor she could go to. The river beckoned. She went.

She went past dark alleys and thoroughfares lit by floodlights, sidestepping the odd rat and giving wide berth to any strange men on the streets. She took a different path than the one she had taken the other night, this time staying a safe distance from the water, as well. The banks of the Wrenhaven weren't much safer than the alleys of Dunwall some nights, whether it was under threat of the smugglers that worked the shallows and the shorelines or of stevedores and whalers and slaughterhouse workers staggering home or contemplating the water.

Bright lights shone from the pub's windows when she reached it, and spilled out onto the street as one of the fine wood doors opened and a few patrons trickled out. She kept her arms wrapped tight around her middle, fingers fisted in the strap of her satchel, as she edged around the bunch and stepped into the warm interior of the building. The auburn-haired woman was at the bar again, and Havelock sat across from her, talking with another man, laughing heartily and slapping the polished wood with his broad, rough hands.

Callista swallowed, then pushed back the renewed surge of doubt. _He owes my uncle a favor_, she reminded herself, and approached with as much confidence as she could project. He didn't notice her. She cleared her throat, but still nothing.

The auburn-haired woman caught her eye, then leaned in and set a glass of water under Havelock's nose, and gestured with a tilt of her chin.

Havelock turned, then, his brows going up. "Just a minute," he rumbled to his companion, then stood and came close to her, lifting a hand as if to settle it on her back. He paused short, instead gesturing a little further away. She followed his lead around the corner of the bar.

They stopped before a closed door. She swallowed, gaze darting around uncertainly. Havelock's jaw worked, but he said nothing.

She cleared her throat again. "You said you owed him a favor?" she asked.

He snorted. "Good evening to you, too, Miss Curnow. Yes." He bowed his head close. "Though speak quieter."

"Right," she said, then took a deep breath and murmured, "I need somewhere to stay the night. Maybe a few nights."

Havelock glanced to the door she'd come in through. "Are you in danger?"

"I- not that I know of, no. It's just that my apartment building has been condemned. Plague. And they took my uncle's a few days ago."

He frowned, eyes narrowing. "How conveniently unfortunate," he said, then sighed and shrugged. "Right. Well, we have a few beds. You're welcome to stay."

"You're sure?" she asked, shoulders sagging. "I- don't have much coin right now. In a few days though-"

He lifted one broad hand. "I'll have Lydia show you up."

"Thank you," she breathed, then managed a small smile. "My uncle would thank you, too."

Havelock nodded with a faint grunt of agreement, then turned away and rejoined his companion. Callista watched as he said a few words to the auburn-haired woman. She responded by wiping off her hands on her apron, throwing Callista a few quick, appraising glances. Callista looked away, leaning against the bar. Her feet hurt, and she thought of a bed and a real night's sleep with deep longing. The bed would probably just be in whatever staff quarters Havelock kept, but it would be enough.

Lydia tapped on the bar, and Callista straightened up, blinking away the lethargy.

"Follow me," Lydia said, and Callista nodded and fell in step behind her as she opened the nearby door and led her up a well-kept flight of stairs. "The Admiral says you're to get room and board for free, as long as you need it. He usually only does that for his navy boys."

"I'm... the niece of one of them," Callista offered, clasping her hands before her as they entered into a hallway. She could see an open door to a room filled with bunks, but Lydia instead turned to a door just beside them. She worked her keyring free from her apron belt and unlocked it, then nudged it open.

"Linens should be fresh. If not, let me know - I'll give Cecelia another talking to." The woman paused, then shrugged and attempted a smile. It came off brittle, untrusting. "You should thank the Admiral - he's given you the nicest place in the pub."

Callista flushed, faintly, and edged around Lydia into the room. It was clean, and more than half the size of her apartment. There was a narrow bed and a small table with a pitcher she suspected was currently empty.

"Washroom is down the hall," Lydia added. "Come downstairs if you need anything. If nobody's there, help yourself. Within reason, mind."

"Of course," Callista said. "I- I hope my stay won't be long, or too much of an imposition. Your employer is doing me a great favor."

The woman shrugged. "He gets into strange moods. Can't help it. Good night, Miss...?"

"Callista," she responded, not sure if she should give her last name. "Just Callista is fine."

Lydia eyed her, then shrugged again and turned away. "Good night, Miss Callista," she said, then disappeared back into the stairwell.

Callista took a deep, steadying breath, then closed the door.

When she was alone, she undressed. When her corset as off and her breeches and knickers had been pulled down, she twisted at the waist and craned her neck.

The marks Martin had left on her were fading, but a few were still visible, the red stamp of his hand standing out against her pale flesh. She prodded at her skin, then closed her eyes at the welcome sting.

* * *

In the morning, she opened her door to hear the faint sound of arguing coming from down the hall. Nobody had been around when she'd first woken, and gone to the washroom to clean up. But by the time she had dressed and gone over her few belongings, and decided she was ready to face the world again, two men were bickering down the hall. One was Havelock - the deep rumble of his voice was unmistakable. The other had a high-pitched, wheedling voice, which drew Callista's attention despite her better judgment.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. It was made of thick metal, something she hadn't noticed the night before, and she frowned at it. A vault, on the second floor? Havelock began speaking again, and she edged closer.

"-not a part of this," he said.

"If she's Curnow's niece and is sympathetic to him, then she is! She's absolutely on our side," the other man whined. Callista froze.

"She's sympathetic to him because he raised her, Pendleton. Not because she agrees with what he did."

_Pendleton_. She'd heard the name before. That family owned silver mines, and wielded so much political power that even Empress Kaldwin had sometimes had trouble controlling them.

But why was one of them here?

The lord snorted. "How do you _know_, though?"

"She's too smart to agree with it."

"Are you saying we're not-"

"I'm _saying_ that she's better off keeping her head down, and she knows it. What would she do? Lecture Burrows into submission?"

"Well, if we ever find the girl, she'll need a tutor."

Havelock didn't respond to that. Callista swallowed, glancing up and down the hallway. There was no sign of Lydia. Still, it would be smarter to turn and leave, to act as if she'd heard nothing. Later, she could tell Martin that Havelock _was_ involved in a conspiracy - with a lord. He'd know if it was worth attending to.

"The girl does need a home. And a job, I'd assume. Nobody's going to bring Curnow's niece, who for all they know could also carry plague, into their home - even if their kids were still in the city," Havelock sighed. "I'll talk to her. But stay out of it, Pendleton."

"I need to head back to the estate anyway. With my brothers spending all their time drinking and whoring, _somebody_ needs to manage the house." His voice turned sour at that.

Callista turned on her heel, and retreated back into her room. She stared at the little satchel. If she left now, she could avoid the whole mess. The possibility was attractive. But they had plans to find the Lady Emily. That was important. That was good. If they somehow managed to find Emily before Martin could, she could use that. But a conspiracy worried her more than working for the High Overseer. At least the latter had the illusion of legitimacy.

She grimaced and picked up her satchel. She'd go for a short stroll, out in the streets around the pub. Clear her head a little, give Pendleton time to leave unnoticed.

Then she'd talk to Havelock - candidly, or as candidly as she could.

She met nobody on her way out of the building, and the first door she tried from the pub let her out into the loading yard that stretched out to the river Across the way, she could hear hounds barking, and made out the hulking building that was likely the fighting ring. She approached, slowly, keeping an eye out for any hounds outside the walls, but found none. The door was shut, and she had no desire to open it. She went to its windows and rose onto her toes, peeking in through the grimy glass.

Inside, she could see an empty fighting cage with a hound kennel attached to it. A few other doors led elsewhere. The sound of the hounds was softer here; they must have been housed elsewhere.

"Miss Callista Curnow?"

She turned, startled. An Overseer watched her, approaching at a steady, leisurely pace. He was accompanied by two others. The noise of the hounds must have covered their approach.

"Who's asking?" she managed. By her apartment, or at Holger, she wouldn't have felt so cornered, but out here by the pub, where nobody should have known she was staying-

"Overseer Martin," the man said.

Callista didn't move.

"The conclave is in session, is it not?" she asked, lifting her chin.

The Overseer who had been speaking canted his head slightly. "You're to come with us, Miss Curnow. Quietly, please."

"I'm otherwise occupied. Let Overseer Martin know that I will visit as soon as possible."

"That won't be possible," the man said, and settled a hand on his sword's hilt. "Come quietly, Miss Curnow, and this will all be over more quickly."

Callista swallowed, thickly, then reached for the doorhandle and tried it. It turned. The Overseer drew his sword, and the men behind him their pistols. She forced the door and slipped inside, heart hammering loud enough to drown out the faint barks and bays of the hounds, but not the shouts as she closed the metal door. Gunshot and the splintering of glass broke through her heart's din, and she threw herself on the ground, her weight jamming the door.

Her bones and sinews quaked, and she stared up at the latch. It needed a key to close. Hands trembling as the door began to jerk against her back, as the shouting grew louder, she fumbled in her satchel. Maybe she had something she could jam the lock with. Maybe it would give her enough time for Havelock to come and clear out the Overseers. But her hand closed instead around the grip of her pistol.

It was loaded. She'd made sure of that before going out to the country.

She tossed the rest of her satchel aside, and frantically checked the weapon over as quickly as she could. The door slammed into her back and she cried out.

She was answered by a low, warning growl.

Looking up, she saw a great, dark-furred wolfhound emerging from the hound kennel and into the cage. It looked as if it were made entirely of thick, coiled muscle, and it stared at her with flashing eyes.

But the cage door was closed tight. She made herself breathe, and glance up at the door. The muzzle of a pistol poked through the broken glass, then angled down.

With a shout, she threw herself out of the way just seconds before the gun went off. She scrambled back across the floor, then got to her feet, staggering backwards. She kept her eyes fixed on the door, gun raised.

The latch turned. The door swung open as the boot of the Overseer connected with it. Callista's finger moved on the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot filled her ears with ringing, and for a moment she couldn't see, until she remembered to open her eyes. The Overseer was on the ground, clutching his shoulder.

Between her and him was the cage door. Open.

Callista stared, then ducked back behind a stack of crates as the wolfhound emerged from the cage and streaked towards the door. The other two Overseers, edging into the room more cautiously, shouted and began to retreat. Callista peeked over the top of the crates just as the hound leapt onto the Overseer on the ground, going straight for the man's unprotected throat. The beast's great, knife-like head shoved the man's chin up, and the man's shouts ended in a sputtering cry.

Another shot rang out, and the hound lurched to one side. Callista fumbled with her pistol. There were still two Overseers, she reminded herself, and the hound would just as quickly turn on her if she were injured, even moreso now that it had been shot. It snarled and leapt out the door.

Somewhere in the din, she thought she heard Havelock shout. There were more gunshots. Callista, shaking, sank down behind the crates once more, unable to will herself out from behind them and towards the dead man lying in the doorway.

Soon, the noise died away to nothing but the sounds of the river and the snarling and whimpering of the hound. Then Havelock's voice, shouting _Back, back_! Both grew louder.

The cage door clanged, latched.

Havelock grumbled below his breath, then boomed, "Whoever you are, get out here. You've cost me six hundred coin, injuring my hound!"

Callista staggered, slowly, to her feet.

Havelock stared at her, his expression transforming slowly from fury to confusion. "Miss Curnow?"

She grimaced, setting her pistol down on top of the crate.

"They came for _you_?"

"Yes," she managed, taking small, stiff steps towards the crate. "I- work for Overseer Martin," she confessed, closing a hand around one of the bars and staring in at the hound, now lying on its side, licking at the bullet wound in its foreleg. "Will it be okay?"

"Blacky? Maybe. Depends on if the bone's shattered. I'll have my vet come and look at him once we take care of the bodies outside." His voice was distant, abstracted, and he stared at her.

Callista swallowed.

"You said you weren't sure if you knew him."

"I didn't have a reason to tell you. I know you met with him, though. The night my uncle killed-"

"That was a coincidence," Havelock said, then groaned and rubbed at his head. "Go in the pub. Wash the gunpowder off your hands. I'll get this mess taken care of."

Her eyes went to the Overseer spread out on the ground. "What will you do with them?"

"If the hounds won't take them, they'll go in the river. Easy enough." He searched her face. "Will there be more? Will they be missed?"

"I don't know," she said, wrapping her arms around her waist. Her gaze remained fixed on the dead man, on the hole she'd blown in his shoulder. "I suppose that depends on who becomes High Overseer."

Havelock grunted in what she assumed was understanding. Callista let go of the cage bar, gathered up her pistol and satchel, and stepped over the corpse with its rictus mask and its torn-out throat.

"We'll talk once I take care of this," Havelock called.

She looked back and nodded.

* * *

The washroom door didn't lock, but Callista was able to move one of the crates stacked in the room in front of it. The block in place, she sank down to the floor. The shaking that had been growing in her since the Overseers had cornered her become fully uncontrollable, wracking every bone down to the smallest in her wrists, forcing her eyes shut, controlling her breathing. She let out a low moan, curling forward, hunching over her knees.

With her eyes closed, she smelled only gunpowder and blood, saw again the way the hound had sank its sharp teeth into the man's throat. She remembered again her relief, her desperate relief. Her fear remained. Her horror grew.

She'd killed that man, even if the bullet in his shoulder alone would never have done the job.

There were a hundred ways to justify what had happened, and her uncle had trained her with a gun to protect herself, but that didn't keep bile from rising in her throat. She staggered to her feet and over to the sink. She gripped hard at the edge of it, shoulders and chest heaving.

Her hands burned and her head pounded, and when the first wave of vomiting came, the acid of her bile stung at her eyes and triggered a torrent of hot, fat tears. She heaved again, groping blindly for the tap to wash it away. Her gloves slipped against the metal, and it took four tries to get water pouring into the basin.

By then her stomach was empty. Leaning hard against the basin, she tore her gloves from her hands. Shaking, she washed herself, scrubbing hard with the harsh soap, scraping and rinsing until her skin was pink and raw.

When it was done, she turned the tap off and sank back to the ground. She blinked through the haze of tears in her eyes, and stared up at the ceiling. Her breathing began to slow to hiccuping coughs. She focused on every breath, the proof that she had defended herself. She still lived.

That was what was most important.

The numbness that she had grown so used to expanded from its constant home in the center of her chest, once the panic had subsided. It obliterated her shaking. It dulled her senses and her fears.

Callista rose to her feet and moved the crate back to where it had come from.

* * *

Lydia set out a breakfast of dark bread and pickled quail eggs, along with a big cup of steaming tea that, at Callista's nervous request, she added a large dose of brandy to. Callista picked at the food, her attention focused on the windows. The woman had said nothing, but she must have heard the gunshots earlier, the shouting.

How soon would the Watch come for her, for disturbing the peace? Or another, larger group of Overseers? It was foolish to stay here, and dangerous to the man who'd offered her room and board only because of a debt owed to Geoff. Her stomach churned, but it was a distant sensation.

She was halfway through the first slice of bread when the realization, sickening and certain, came to her; the Overseers had tried to take her because of Geoff. Without Martin to protect her, there was nothing to stop them from attempting to re-educate her, or worse, because of her ties to the heretical murderer.

And there was nothing to stop Burrows, either - and it was he who had originally ordered her taken into custody.

She covered her face with her hands and focused on breathing, her shield of numbness threatening to crack, then downed half the cup of steaming, sharp tea in one go until it scorched her mouth and throat and settled in around the knot in her chest, strengthening it once more.

If she could only find a way to ensure that Martin became High Overseer-

The door opened, and Havelock came in from the yard, shrugging out of the blood-spattered, gunpowder-flecked coat he wore. He set it on the bar, where Lydia took it without a word. Callista watched as she handed it to a ginger-haired woman she'd hardly noticed.

Havelock spoke a few words to Lydia, and she nodded and poured him a small glass of whiskey, then went towards the stairs.

Callista grimaced as the older man settled into the booth across from her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, brow creased in concern. "Seeing what a hound can do to a man- that's not the easiest thing to stomach."

"I'm fine," she said. Her voice sounded flat. Hollow.

Havelock didn't respond, and seemed to struggle, searching for the right words. Calista took another sip of her tea. Her hands had stopped their trembling, though they looked small and fragile without fabric covering them.

"It's enough to be alive," she added.

He nodded in agreement. After a moment's silence, he cleared his throat. "Overseer Martin, hm?" He reached for a slice of bread, ripping it into pieces with his thick fingers. "How are his chances? At the seat?"

She stared down at her tea. "Good, I think. But until he's installed, I'm not safe."

"More Overseers?"

"And possibly the Regent's men. Nobody likes how close I was to my uncle - or to Martin."

"Understandable. Dangerous men, both of them. You're very brave, bearing up under all this."

"I don't have much of an option." Her thoughts went back to her family's coastal home. She could have stayed - for a time. Or she could have gone into the sea...

Havelock sat back, then looked up as Lydia approached, holding an old naval uniform coat. Havelock thanked her and stood, shrugging into it. It looked odd over civillian clothing, but Havelock seemed to straighten a little, wearing it.

He sat back down, hands braced on his thighs. His gaze had turned piercing, appraising. "The night the High Overseer died, I spoke to Martin. I want to work with him. He's a clever man."

"Work with him?"

Havelock leaned forward. "I want to find the heir," he murmured. "And get that bastard Burrows out of the Tower."

"That's treason," Callista said.

"So is resisting arrest by the Abbey," Havelock pointed out, then tapped the table with one meaty finger. "With Martin's help, though, we have a decent chance. He has access to information nobody else does. And I have connections in the military and the nobility."

Her throat tightened and Callista turned, looking out the window again.

"If you swear to take this to Martin," Havelock said, "then I will guarantee your protection as long as you stay here."

She looked back at him, eyes wide. "Martin is a careful man," she said, slowly. "I can promise to tell him, but I can't promise that he'll want to help - or that he won't turn you in to boost his legitimacy. Are you prepared for that?"

Havelock frowned. "... I suppose I have to be," he said. "But if I can rely on your influence-"

"What influence?" she asked. "I'm his assistant. He only took me on because he owed my uncle. It's the same as your letting me stay here because of your own debt - whatever that is."

He ignored the half-asked question. "Overseers don't have maids, or assistants," he said, and lifted his glass. "He's taking a big risk having you around. He has to extend himself to protect you. He wouldn't do that if you're not worth something to him. And if you're worth something to him?" He shrugged. "You have influence."

Callista watched as he knocked back his whiskey, then rose from the table.

"Think about it, Miss Curnow. I'll be back once Blacky's seen to. I hope to find you still here."

Morning turned to early afternoon as Callista slowly picked at her food. After the first half hour of anxious waiting for Havelock's return, she began to appreciate the quiet, the isolation. It was tempting to lock herself in her room upstairs, to close the windows and sit in the dark, trying to put the pieces of herself back together.

But the pieces were all where they needed to be, she supposed. She fit together quite well these days. It was only that they creaked and chafed, new to their arrangement, poking out in odd places, waiting to be worn smooth.

Havelock passed through the pub once or twice in the course of tending to his beast, never using the main door. Lydia never went to it, and it remained locked, keeping all patrons out. There were a few knocks throughout the day, and each one made Callista straighten and lift her head.

Nobody was allowed in.

Callista never cleared her plate of eggs and bread, and only finished her tea after it was bone cold, but Lydia still brought her lunch, setting out a small plate of hagfish and a glass of beer. Callista picked at both. Her stomach had settled, but she wasn't hungry. Instead, she felt very still.

She wanted to see Martin, she determined. Not to tell him everything that had happened, not to warn him - though that would happen too - but to bask in his smug certainty, to absorb the illusion of safety she had around him.

The sun was firmly in the western portion of the sky when Havelock came to her table. He placed a medal on the table.

"Your uncle was there in the fight that won me that," he said, lifting a brow.

"It's very nice," she replied. "I'm glad you prevailed."

"Take it."

She shook her head. "I don't take bribes. I'm sorry."

"It's not a bribe," he said. "It's a memento of your uncle."

"I have my gun. That was from him as well. I appreciate the gesture, Admiral-" Havelock straightened somewhat, unable to keep from preening- "but I can't accept this. It was awarded to you, and with any luck, you'll get to wear it again soon."

He hummed, gathering the medal back and slipping it into his pocket. "Have you given any thought about the power you have?"

"Some." Not much. She'd thought on it enough to realize she didn't want the kind of influence he was talking about. It would protect her, of course, but it also overwhelmed her. Still, she thought he might be right.

She was worth something to Martin.

Shadows passed in front of a window, and Lydia set down a bottle on the bar. "Visitors," she announced. The knocking came only a few minutes later.

"We're closed!" shouted Havelock, glancing at Callista and then moving towards the door. She could see his hand straying towards his pistol. Callista closed her eyes, covering her mouth with one hand.

"Representatives of the Abbey of the Everyman, here to speak with Callista Curnow," came the reply.

Callista hunched forward.

"There's nobody here by that name," Havelock growled. "And we're _closed_."

"A patrol sent here this morning hasn't returned."

Callista took a deep breath, then got to her feet. She stared at the door, at Havelock with his pistol now in his hand. Lydia was nowhere to be seen.

"There's a way down to the sewers," Havelock said over his shoulder, through clenched teeth. "Go into the hallway, here," he said, indicating a door, "open the floor up, and there's a chain you can lower. It winches back up when there's no weight on it."

She shook her head. "I can't-"

"If you want to live, you'll-"

A female voice interrupted them. "The patrol sent here this morning was acting under the orders of a splinter group within the Abbey. The Overseer who sent them has been dealt with. We come on orders from the High Oracle."

Havelock's head swiveled back around. Callista's mouth went dry.

"Open the door, Farley Havelock," the woman said.

Callista cleared her throat. "Go ahead," she said.

Havelock hesitated a moment longer, then holstered his pistol and opened the door.

Behind it stood three Overseers flanking a woman in a black robe. Her shoulders were covered with a heavy, stiff mantle that rose up in a voluminous hood that obfuscated everything but a glint of metal inside. The robe was cinched at the waist with a military-style belt, and fell to just below her knees. She wore fine hose and fine shoes, and her hands were covered with fine leather.

No inch of skin showed.

As she stepped into the pub, the light caught under her hood, revealing a faintly domed, featureless expanse of bronze. There were no holes or grate to see through.

Callista took a deep breath. The featureless face oriented to her.

"I'm here," Callista said. "What does the Abbey need of me?"

"The High Oracle would speak with you, Miss Curnow, as a part of the conclave proceedings. Will you come with us?"

She swallowed, thickly, glancing to the Overseers standing motionless behind the woman. "Do I have a choice?"

"If you refuse, the Abbey will consider you no longer Teague Martin's adjunct. All the protection you derive from that status will be gone."

Callista grimaced, bowing her head.

"You will understand," she said, slowly, "that having almost lost my life this morning to what you call a splinter faction of Overseers-"

"The problem has been taken care of. You will remain unharmed."

The woman's words, muffled by the metal of her mask, had a certain, strange lilt to them. Callista had only heard of the sisters of the Oracular Order before. They were the ones who set the calendar each year, and who brought to the Overseers every prophecy that guided their decisions. They were vastly powerful.

And an unknown.

"I would like to come armed. As insurance."

"Until you come before the High Oracle, that will be allowed," she said. "Though a note has now been made of your martial nature. Gather what you need, then return here. We will escort you."

Callista nodded, taking a few deep breaths through her nose. Havelock remained by the door, arms crossed, as Callista went back to her booth. She'd kept her satchel with her all day, too afraid to be without it. At the time, she hadn't thought of it as fear. It had been need, only need.

Now, though, she knew exactly why she'd kept it. The weight of the pistol inside of it was reassuring.

As she came to the door, the Overseers fell in step beside her. The Oracle had her mask turned in Havelock's direction. She said nothing, though, and followed Callista out of the pub.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Outside the pub, the afternoon sunlight was strong and bright. It gleamed off the bronze dome of the Oracle's mask. Callista squinted against it as they led her to nearest set of rail tracks and the car - slightly larger, less opulent than Martin's - that sat on them. Nobody laid a hand on her, and all kept their weapons holstered.

She took a deep breath. This was _her_ Abbey, the one that, if it did not accept her, tolerated her. They opened the door to the car, and she climbed inside.

The car still had only two bench seats. Two Overseers sat across from her. The other and the Oracle sat on either side of her. When the car was sealed, bright, harsh lights sprung on, and she grimaced, squinting.

The ride was short and silent. They arrived at Holger without fanfare. The front square was empty except for the regular patrols, and with the afternoon sun it was impossible to see how much of the Office was lit from within. She was led inside, and it became clear how heavily guarded the building itself had become. They passed by three stations of guards before they even reached the stairs, and from there they passed another guard post at every floor.

They ascended to the top floor of the building, above Martin's office, using a disused stairway that had been locked down on previous visits by a cage of sparking steel. The lights, which had been turned up to high illumination on the floors below, dimmed to almost nothing. She followed the shadows of her escort down passages and, finally, through a door and into what she assumed was a room. Their footsteps didn't echo back the way they had in the hallway, and the air felt close and heavy.

The Oracle took her arm and led her to a chair she could barely see.

"You will wait here, until the High Oracle is ready for you," she said.

Callista wet her lips. "And Overseer Martin?"

"Will be present at the meeting." The woman's robe rustled in the dark. "You will be considered a unit for the rest of the conclave. Just like him, you will not be allowed to leave. We will find space for you."

"This- isn't normal, is it? To have an- an-" _Outsider_- "a layperson within the walls of the conclave?"

A reverberating laugh floated from the Oracle's silhouette. "No, but you ceased to be a layperson the moment you and Overseer Martin decided that you would change traditions and become an _assistant_. Luckily," she added, "_we_ already knew something of the sort would happen."

Callista nodded, weakly. She'd heard stories of the Oracular Order, but only stories; they were a mystery, cloistered outside the cities, in high towers or in low buildings stretching across inhospitable plateaus.

She heard the Oracle's soft footsteps retreating, and saw the change in darkness that had to be her form moving away, and she swivelled in her seat. She could see no other standing shadows that could be her Overseer escort. "Am I safe, here?" she called out.

"Yes, Miss Curnow. The only people who have died in a conclave in the last several generations took their own lives. You are safe."

A door opened and closed. Callista was left alone in near-total darkness.

The room was vast and claustrophobic all at once. She drew her feet up onto the chair with her, and tried not to think of what lurked in shadows.

She began to spin theories: that the men of the Abbey feared the dark and the unknown, and so supported the forward march of technology, of brilliant floodlights that never went out and ways to drain the channels and marshes and every inlet of water not necessary for sustenance. That the women didn't fear the dark at all, but respected it and divorced its limitless potential from the threat of the unknown, used it as the men used light and science. It was all very elegant - and so, she thought, probably wrong.

But it was something.

Martin had talked about the candidates going without their masks to see if any caved to the fear of what would find them if it could tie actions to an individual. Maybe the darkness was another step in the process. They stripped themselves of anonymity, then descended into the source of their fears. But the darkness granted anonymity, too, and the idea that only those who killed themselves died in the dark seemed... unlikely.

A door opened and closed. Callista lifted her head, but saw nothing; the faint light of the hallway, only slightly brighter than the room she was in, was already gone.

"Miss Curnow?"

_Martin_.

She straightened up. "Here," she said, "in a chair."

"Keep talking, so I can find my way to you."

The words dried up. She couldn't think of a single thing to stay except _I killed a man today and I still don't know why_.

"Nevermind," he said, voice taking on a note of what sounded like concern. "I can hear your breathing."

His footsteps were loud, announcing his approach, and soon she heard his hand brush over the arm of the chair. He paused, then lowered himself at her feet. His clothing rustled, with a different sound than his woolen uniform.

"I'm glad that you're alive," he said.

"They told you?" she managed.

"One of my rivals told me his men had you," he said. His hand brushed the arm of the chair again. His fingers drummed on the- wood? "He thought it would make me do something reckless. Leave, maybe, or try to kill him. But the Oracles picked up on what had happened soon enough. They said they'd sent somebody to retrieve you."

Callista shivered, bowing her head. _They came because of you, then_, she thought, and covered her mouth for a moment to hold back any wordless cries.

When she could speak again, she said, "I killed a man today."

The confession felt strange on her lips and tongue, and it soured as it hit the air. She wished she could take it back. There was no lightness to admitting what she had done.

Martin didn't respond at first.

Then he hummed, deep in his throat. "Is this the first time?"

She nodded, then closed her eyes and said, "Yes."

Again, he said nothing. But his hand left the arm of the chair and instead came to rest on her knee. She flinched, then covered it with both of hers.

He wasn't wearing gloves, and neither was she. She'd abandoned her gloves in the washroom at the pub, too sickened by their gunpowder stench. It had been years, it seemed, since she'd felt somebody's skin with her skin, and she trembled as her fingertips dragged over the whorls of his knuckles.

She waited for him to pull away. He didn't. Instead, he sighed and leaned against her chair, close to her legs. She was glad she couldn't see him - the intimacy of it would have overwhelmed her.

"They condemned my apartment," she murmured, gaze fixed ahead of her, unseeing.

"Silas's men?" Martin asked. She imagined his brow quirking, then shut down the image. She focused on the blackness instead.

"No. Watchmen, and maybe the landlord. It's marked as plague-stricken, and was still under the initial quarantine when I got there. Nobody saw me, though. I left."

"Where did you go?"

"Farley Havelock's pub. He knew my uncle. He... owed him a favor."

Martin chuckled. "And then the Overseers found you there?"

"Out in the yard. I ran into the building they use for hound fights. One of the hounds was out, but I didn't know that until I'd- until I'd fired my gun." She let out a shaking breath. "I caught one of the men in the shoulder, enough to get him down on the ground. And the hound-"

Martin's hand tightened on her knee. She stopped, panting for breath.

"I didn't know you could shoot," he murmured, with the same tone he'd had when he called her _clever_, when he'd stared at her with pleased astonishment when she'd announced she'd cracked Campbell's cypher.

"My uncle taught me," she responded, weakly. "So I could protect myself."

_He would be proud_, she thought.

"Perhaps you will be my Lord Protector, then," Martin murmured. Then he shifted slightly. "But the hound killed the man. Not you." His voice firmed.

"If I hadn't shot him, the hound wouldn't have torn his throat out."

"The Abbey loves you, for your guilt and self blame," he said, and there was a note of bitterness in his voice. His thumb rubbed at her knee. "But you defended yourself, and though you were a _reason_ for a man's death, you were only one of them. Tell yourself this. You didn't let the hound out, or set it on him. And if you hadn't shot him, what then? They would have killed you. I knew that from the moment Silas told me his men had you - that if they did, you were already dead."

She let out a low, soft sound. "Why?"

"Because they had no reason to let you live. All they needed was for me to leave the conclave, or do something foolish. If I didn't become High Overseer, your life would be meaningless, and nobody would mourn you. If I did, I would have lost an ally of questionable worth - to them, only to them - and any response of mine could be painted as irrational. Do you see?"

"So you assumed I was dead."

"It was the only intelligent path," he said. "But I thought first and foremost that he didn't have you at all."

She bowed her head, the deep chest shivers returning. They closed her ribs and shoulders in a vice, and made her quake, silently, in her seat.

"My uncle would have come for me."

"And it would have gotten him killed, and you not much better. Miss Curnow, please- I did what I did out of respect for you."

"Respect," she echoed, weakly.

It didn't seem like respect. And yet she found she wouldn't have wanted him to come to her aid in the pub. She preferred that the whole of it was only hers. She'd given him the horror of the Overseer's death, but nothing else.

The rest was hers.

"I feel like I'm shaking apart at the seams," she confessed, curling up more tightly in her seat. "I haven't really stopped shaking in days, and it's only getting worse."

Martin hummed, low in his throat, then stood. His hand left hers, and she lifted her head as he paced around behind her.

He tapped the back of the chair before reaching forward and slipping his hand around her throat. His touch was light, gentle, and she could have pulled away. Instead, she straightened, and let him pull her back against the chair.

Leaning down, he murmured in her ear, "Do you trust me, Miss Curnow?"

"Yes," she whispered. She did trust him. She trusted him because every time she had trusted him before, he had satisfied that trust. He'd been more constant than Geoff. He'd been more constant than her own mind had been.

Perhaps it was because he didn't promise quite so much.

He pressed harder with his hand, pinning her to the chair. The pressure of his touch made her breathing turn shallow, and she swallowed, her throat bobbing against his palm. She wished, briefly, for a barrier of leather between them, or of the red cloth still around her arm, before her attention focused down to the total awareness of her every breath, of her pulse, of the weight of him.

He stopped short of choking her, but only barely.

Slowly, he slid his hand up the column of her throat, until the edge of his finger pressed into the soft skin below her jaw. Her head tilted back. His other hand sought her wrist and dragged it, too, against the chair, pinned it in place. His grip was tight and harsh, but it never moved to painful.

Callista tried to sit forward. He didn't let her.

She began to shake, but he held her still.

Like when he'd bent her over his desk, her world narrowed only to where they were connected, only to the physical stress she was under, and the rest of her relaxed. It wasn't a great shattering, like what had happened in his office, or in the bathroom at the pub. This time, it was a weightlessness, a great wave of exhaustion that crashed over her, then dispersed. She struggled against him only to feel how he responded. She thought of what it would be like if he had wrapped his whole body around hers, immobilized her with himself.

Her eyes slid shut, and despite the pressure on her throat, her breathing slowed.

Distantly, she heard the rustle of fabric. It didn't sound like Martin's clothing, but before she could remember the words to articulate it, a woman's voice slipped out of the darkness like a darting, flashing minnow.

"That's an interesting method you have, Overseer Martin."

The voice sounded old, cracked and rough around the edges. Martin's grip immediately eased up, then slipped from Callista's wrist and throat entirely. She stirred, lethargic and confused, twisting in her chair.

She could see nothing in the darkness except for the faint outline of Martin's broad shoulders.

"I've seen men train animals in similar ways. Maybe it was men hooding their hawks, distracting them until they're needed? Always hunting relationships, oddly. I've never had much opinion on the use of it, though."

"How long have you been watching, Oracle?" Martin asked, and Callista could hear the splintering in his composure.

"Since she was brought here. I wanted to see this relationship for myself, without illusions to hide it. It's quite different from what your Brothers think it is."

The rustling of fabric grew closer. Callista massaged at her throat, searching in the dark for any moving shadows.

"Miss Curnow, do you usually trust violent men half so much?"

She swallowed. "Not like this."

"Yes, your uncle was a violent man as well - but not like this," the Oracle agreed. Her voice had moved to Callista's right. She was circling them.

Martin's hands curled over the back of the chair again. "Does the nature of our relationship disqualify me?"

"So blunt, Teague Martin. No, it does not. Neither does it raise you above your fellows. You have other qualities to do both."

The Oracle was closer now, and Callista finally made out her silhouette as she crouched before the chair. "Do you feel safe here, Miss Curnow?"

"I don't know," she said, drawing back.

The Oracle chuckled. "Blunt and honest - not qualities we expected from either of you. The High Oracle will be pleased. She likes things she wasn't able to foresee."

Martin inhaled sharply behind her. Callista tried to straighten up and keep her chin high, but it was nearly impossible.

"She would see you both, now," the Oracle said, rising once more and taking a few steps back.

Martin's hand slipped beneath Callista's arm, and he urged her to stand. She imagined him distracted, gaze focused on where he thought the Oracle might be. He seemed- nervous. Truly nervous.

These women upset him.

Callista stood and let him keep his hold on her as they followed the sound of the Oracle's footsteps. They were light and she strained to hear them. A door opened; the grey lightened ahead of them. She blinked her eyes. If she let her gaze go unfocused, she could see faint outlines.

She could see.

She let her sight go blurry and found that walking was much simpler. The room was largely empty, and the door was easy enough to find. The Oracle before them wore the same robes, but when she glanced back over her shoulder, Callista could see her nose, her chin. The domed mask was gone.

Callista turned her head. The lines of Martin's jaw and nose were harsher, but perhaps that was only the darkness obliterating all details that might have softened them. She couldn't see his expression, but his gaze was focused forward, his jaw lifted slightly. His hand hadn't moved from her elbow.

They reached the door, and passed through it to a labyrinth of halls. She desperately wanted to ask him about this part of the building - did the Oracles always live up here? If not, was this space used when they weren't in residence? Who had designed it? Why weren't there any windows? - but she found there was no sound left in her throat.

They paused before a final door. The Oracle knocked in a series of disjointed rhythms, then had it returned in kind. The latch clicked open. She nudged the door, and it opened up onto a pitch-dark room that Callista could never have any hope of seeing in.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside. Martin trailed behind her.

"Forward, ten paces," a woman said. It was impossible to place her age. Callista looked down to where her feet should have been, but the door had closed behind them. There was no light at all. She stepped forward. _One_. Behind her, Martin did the same. She tried to time their steps together, but it all became a jumble.

"Stop," the woman said. "Kneel."

The darkness was all-consuming, and Callista no longer knew if Martin was beside her. He'd let go of her when they passed the threshold. She strained to hear his breathing as she sank to the floor. It felt like the stone tile floors of the rest of the building, covered with a thin rug.

It hurt.

"Teague Martin."

"Yes, High Oracle?" His voice sounded faintly hoarse. She'd heard the tone before. It was one of barely constrained violence. Geoff had sounded like that when he was biting his tongue, when the actions of his men horrified him or when the Regent's policies damaged his reputation.

"I thought you would feel comfortable in the dark. More than the others, anyway. I'm disappointed."

"I don't know where any of the exits are," he pointed out, sharply. "And I can only count the breathing of three others in the room. I don't like it."

The High Oracle chuckled. "Very well-suited to Abbey life, you are. You cling to the blinding floodlights and the shadows they create very naturally, but put you into the unknown-"

"Give me time to adjust, and I will," he said.

Callista held her breath.

Something was passing between them - unspoken knowledge that informed their every word. The High Oracle knew something, and she could hear Martin trying to assert himself, and keep the discussion vague.

"Yes, you are the most adaptable of the candidates," the High Oracle said. "Others grasp at whatever they can see, but are crude in their methods. Overseer Silas has, of course, been informed that his plan failed."

"And where is he now?"

"Do you fear him stalking the shadows with a blade, Teague Martin? You are all men of _faith_, not violence - you have been trained to preserve your brothers."

"We have been trained to seek out heresy and destroy it at the root, even if it is among our number."

"You have been _trained_ to never trust." She sighed. "A reasonable and good trait, mind you. Still, I have found that the things men fear in the dark are what they know of themselves. Silas would not use a knife. But you, Teague Martin..."

She could hear Martin swallowing, thickly.

"... No, I err." The High Oracle clucked her tongue. "No, you have more in common with _my_ order, I think. You wouldn't hesitate to use a knife if that was what was needed, but you would much prefer to use that silver tongue of yours."

"From what I understand," he gritted out, "that is a common tactic among High Overseers."

"And you do it better than most. Still, you are a man who makes enemies, who incites violence to silence you. Why should I recommend that you be my opposite?"

"Because nobody else is as qualified. What happened to Brother Silas, High Oracle?"

"He tried to leave. He did not like being informed that we knew he tried to kill your assistant. And he did not like that we had called her here."

"And?"

"And he had an accident. Very unfortunate."

Martin was silent. Callista bowed her head.

"He did not have the conviction necessary to be High Overseer. And he had far too much fear. What are you afraid of, Teague? A week ago, I would have known you to be afraid of discovery, and yet now you bring Miss Curnow into your orbit, where she's at risk of seeing all your myriad secrets."

Callista's skin crawled, and she held her breath.

"You have all the right qualities, Teague Martin, in odd and intriguing combinations, and I have found that I can't read your future as well as I can the rest of your cohort's. And now my Oracles tell me that your relationship with your Miss Curnow isn't in the service of simple, base needs, or even convenient conspiracies."

When they'd had a time to communicate, Callista couldn't say. Had there been a second observer in the room, who had left before they had, through a silent doorway? The labyrinth they had passed through - had that been necessary, or a delaying tactic? She let out a shuddering exhale. It hardly mattered how the High Oracle knew. Callista could hear it building - _she_ was the linchpin. His candidacy rested on her.

"Callista Curnow," the High Oracle said, and Callista flinched. "Your uncle, who was once your legal guardian, killed Thaddeus Campbell.

"For that I must commend him. He was making a mess of our Order."

Martin swore, softly.

"And you, too, have now killed Overseers. I should rightly have you imprisoned, because once the seed takes hold, it can be difficult to eradicate. You are not a pious woman, though you have never disobeyed the Strictures. Your obedience comes from your grief, and the ways you have closed yourself off to the world. And so you have no loyalty to us. Should you live, and rise to Martin's side, you will be the third most important person in this Order, and I _do not know you_."

"I can see how that would be- concerning," she said, fighting to keep her breath even.

"Will you advocate for yourself?"

"Only that I do not want to be imprisoned, or killed."

"Do you trust Teague Martin? You know him little better than I know you."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because he has never betrayed the trust I have had to give him by necessity," she said. She kept her gaze fixed, unseeing, ahead of her, and forgot the sound of Martin's breathing.

"A very simple reason, but honest." The High Overseer hummed, then shifted wherever she sat in a rustle of fabric. "What are your ambitions?"

"To be safe," she said.

"Given safety, what then?"

"I don't- I don't know-"

"Once you dreamed of whaling ships, of killing the great leviathans and working your hands until they were no longer yours, only the machines necessary to do the work."

Callista flinched, feeling as if she'd been struck in the chest. "I was a girl, then."

"But it speaks to your ambitions. You wish to _work_, to fight, to be fierce, don't you?"

"I don't- that's not right."

"Give a man safety," the High Oracle said, "and he will find new goals in a fortnight. Power. Flesh. Money."

"I don't want any of those. I want a quiet life. I want to not- to not _lose_ anything else."

"Power, then. You want the strength to keep your life together. It's a common, understandable goal. You want _stability_.

"But know this, Callista Curnow - you also want the power and strength that you would have found at sea. The power to control the unknown, to bleed it dry for your own triumph. Beware the deadening of your humanity in the process. Whalers do not remain human for long."

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she held her breath, unable to respond.

"You have picked an interesting assistant, Teague Martin. You are not a man to trust others. She should not trust you, either. And yet you've won her trust by simple actions.

"Consider if you want her to remain."

"I will not condemn her," he growled.

"I do not ask you to. She is quiet, and meek, but can contain herself quite well. I would trust her with our secrets. So she can go free, if she wants. Or she can stay. The decision rests between the two of you."

"I want to stay," Callista said.

Martin did not respond, and Callista hunched down, staring at where her knees should have been. Her fear slowly churned, then transformed to anger, to frustration.

"I _will_ stay," she said, turning towards where Martin was.

Martin again said nothing, until he laughed, faintly, and echoed, "She will stay."

"Very well. Then stand up, High Overseer Teague Martin."

He stiffened. "The voting hasn't finished yet."

"No," she said, "but I see many things. You _will_ be High Overseer. Does it bother you to know that, or thrill you?"

He was silent. Callista shivered. _I see many things_. The words echoed.

"Stand up, Callista Curnow. There is much work to be done, hm?" the High Oracle said.

Callista staggered up, and heard Martin do the same at last. Lamps flared, bright enough after the darkness to burn her eyes, and she grimaced - but when she had blinked the brilliant impressions from her vision, she could see again. Martin stood across from her in a black shirt and trousers, simple clothing from an earlier time, and he looked haggard. But as she watched, he schooled his expression, scrubbed at his unshaven jaw and harnessed himself back into his usual easy, arrogant state. His lips curled. He lifted his head.

_High Overseer_.

She turned towards the High Oracle, and saw an old woman sitting in a simple chair. Her robes were scarlet and her eyes were milky blind. Her hair was long and white and had been plaited into a crown.

She sat with her chin pillowed on her hand. "So, Martin, when the votes are through, will you consider leaving Dunwall with me? Campbell refused several times. But a plague should not destroy the Abbey."

"There is much work to be done, as you said," Martin replied. "I'll follow once it's done. Maybe. But with the plague, the people of Dunwall need- guidance."

She snorted. "As you say. I will be in communication, though. Do not shut me out. Campbell was a fool to do so."

"Of course not."

Callista watched a moment longer, then turned and scanned the room. It was simple, unfurnished, but well-kept. The wallpaper was fresh, the moulding polished. There was one other person besides the three of them, the fourth that Martin had identified earlier. She wore the same robes as the Oracle who had come to the pub, but the mask was gone. She looked too young to have been their recent escort. Her eyes were covered by a scarlet sash, and her face was turned fixedly towards them.

"I would like Oracle Anise to serve as my liaison," the High Oracle said.

"A minder?" Martin asked.

"No, a line of communication. She will be present only some of the time. Campbell ceased passing the Oracular Order information several years ago. I would like to keep that from happening again, especially in such troubled times as these. Will there be a problem, High Overseer?"

"I suppose not."

"I will do my best not to interfere," said Anise.

"As good as can be hoped for," Martin sighed, rubbing at his jaw. "So, how do we proceed from here?"

"As you would have if we hadn't spoken. Secure your votes however you will. A lesser man than you would revel in his prophesied success, but I doubt you put much stock in what I tell you."

He snorted. "I'm still making up my mind. But yes- the votes will be tallied, as many times as it takes."

"When the votes are tallied, and you prevail, we will initiate the arrangements for your public installation. It will take a few days. You'll need a new uniform tailored, of course, as will Miss Curnow. But that will come in time. For now, prepare for the next round of voting. We will find Miss Curnow a room."

Martin nodded, the muscles around his mouth tight and pursed. Callista found herself bowing, watching the woman with a profound sense of unease. She was so calm, so certain, and her words sounded true - but the combination of it all didn't do anything to settle her. She knew too much. It wasn't natural.

And the voting wasn't over yet. Nothing was certain.

Was it?

Martin hesitated a moment longer, then turned and gestured for Callista to follow. She did, eagerly. They passed through the door, into the darkness of the hallway. Anise didn't follow, and behind them, the lamplight guttered out.

He navigated by memory or touch - Callista couldn't be sure which - to a door several hallways over. It was impossible to tell if they passed other Overseers, other Oracles, and Callista felt herself bristling, afraid and uncertain.

Eventually, he paused at a door, then slipped a key from a pocket in his loose clothing and opened up the room. When they stepped inside, Callista thought she could feel walls close at hand. It felt small, tight.

"It's a guest room," he said as he shut them off from the hall. "For visiting members of the Abbey who have been raised high enough that they won't sleep in the barracks."

"Oh."

"I'll take whatever new room they come up with for you. I know this one by touch now - it's safe. And the furniture can be moved in front of the door, if it ever stops being safe."

She wrapped her arms around herself. "I can't say I feel particularly comfortable. The High Oracle-"

"The High Oracle usually resides in a tower off the shores of Whitecliff, with her women. They read the stars and the churning of the waves, and live in total darkness - from what I understand of it. There are members of the Order who think their very existence is heretical."

"I can believe that," she said.

She tensed when he touched her elbow, but let him lead her to his narrow cot. She sat down gratefully.

"Whaling ships?" Martin murmured.

Callista cleared her throat, thankful for the darkness to hide her flush. "Childish fancy. I'm not looking to catch the next ship out past the blockade."

"I wouldn't have expected whaling ships, though, even of the child you once were. I would have thought dreams of fine townhomes, hordes of children-"

"I was a frighteningly realistic child, in some regards," she said, scowling at the darkness. "I didn't want to think about families while I was losing mine, and I'd prefer to speak of something else now."

Martin was silent for just the space of a breath, re-evaluating. She thought she heard his shirt rustle as he shrugged. "Then should we talk about your declaration of trust?"

Her eyes were once more beginning to adjust to the dark, and she could make out faint shadows from the light that spilled in at the edges of the shuttered window. It wasn't enough to make out his expression, but it was enough for her to realize his gaze was fixed on her - and that he was crouched very close to her.

She looked away.

"I thought I articulated myself quite well about that," she said. "What did she mean when she said you should have been afraid of discovery?"

"Perhaps she knows about the journal," he said, shrugging. "It's not relevant, whatever she meant."

His words took on too much of an edge for her to believe him.

"Of course not," she said.

Silence fell, until Martin finally pulled away. "Stay in this room. I'll bring you your food. After what Silas attempted, and with what has happened before in conclave- it's dangerous."

"It makes you vulnerable," she said.

She hoped he grimaced at her perceptiveness.

"Something like that, yes. This should hopefully only take a few days more. Silas was my main opponent." He fell silent again, and she could hear him pacing. "... Perhaps I'll stay here as well, when it's time to sleep. Would that put you at ease, too?"

"It would, but people would notice."

"I'll return," he said, and his voice grew more distant.

"Off to secure your votes?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, and I think I know just the trick, now that Silas is out of the way."

* * *

She stayed at Holger that night, curled up on Martin's cot. He didn't return for what felt like half a day, maybe longer, but without any light it was impossible to mark the passage of time.

A few hours in, she rose and paced the small expanse of floor, trying to learn the space. She rubbed at her throat, which still felt alive and tender where Martin's hand had pressed. She rubbed at her wrist for the same reason. She sought the calm it had given her, but instead came up feeling desperately confused.

Somewhere deep in the building, a bell rang.

When Martin returned at last, he was surly, snappish, and largely silent. They ate, without conversation, bowls of tasteless gruel - the better, Martin commented only once, to guard against bitter or pungent poisons. No wine accompanied their meal.

It was as if they were prisoners.

They slept in shifts, though not by design. Callista couldn't sleep for more than what felt like an hour, maybe two, at a time, but when she woke and paced the darkened room, she would hear Martin shift into the cot behind her. By the time her mind quieted enough, he would be awake again, sitting by the locked, shuttered window, and she would try to rest.

She could see faint light at the edges of the window when a bell sounded. Martin left shortly after and she fell asleep once more, tossing and turning, until he returned with another quick meal of gruel, then departed again. Alone, she went to the window, running her fingers along the glass and frame, imagining the view of John Clavering Boulevard beyond. She breathed in, and breathed out, and imagined herself out at sea, chasing great leviathans, trusting in herself that she was strong enough to survive the pursuit.

She was the High Overseer's assistant, and that was a good thing.

Soon the shutters would open, and soon Martin would wear scarlet.

* * *

That evening, he came back in a far better mood.

"Two left to go," he said once the door was locked. She heard the faint sloshing of their gruel, and made her way over by touch and memory to the small table they ate at.

"Will they be easy?"

"Given time to think on how they have no support- yes, I think so. I'm sure they'll pace all night, thinking of ways to unseat me. They won't find any." He chuckled, sitting down across from her, his chair creaking. He slid her bowl to her, and she took up her spoon, stirring the watery mixture. "Another day. That's all."

They ate in a companionable silence, until Martin set his spoon down and asked, "How have you been occupying your time?"

"Thinking," she said. "Pacing. Feeling... adrift."

"The darkness?"

"Yes," she said.

"And what have you been thinking about?"

"How I'd like a glass of whiskey," she said, and he chuckled. She leaned both elbows on the table, stirring at her gruel some more. "About what the High Oracle told us. And a little bit about what happened at the pub."

_About what that man had looked like dead_ - which she could think on with a fair bit of detachment now, as long as she thought of Martin's hand on her throat after. But she'd also gone over the events of that day in their entirety.

"Havelock," she said. "He wanted me to pass a message to you."

"Did he, now?" his voice was close to her, closer than she had expected, and she shivered.

"He wants to ally himself with you. He has dreams of rescuing the heir, of deposing the Lord Regent. And he has an ally in parliament."

"Does he? That's... more than I would have given him credit for. Did he give you a name?"

"No, but I overheard them talking. It's one of the Pendletons."

"One of?" She could picture his frown perfectly. "Then it can't be either Custis or Morgan. Where one of them goes, the other always follows. That leaves the younger, Treavor. He has hardly any influence. Good blood, yes, and maybe money, depending on if his brothers control his purse strings or if he has independent income- but he's a piss poor vote. The whole thing is a recipe for disaster."

"I told him that you might not be interested," she said. "And that he should consider having me tell you all of this - you could have him arrested and killed, couldn't you?"

"I could. Do you want me to?"

She shook her head. "No. He saved my life, and was willing to defend me against the Overseers - and the Oracle."

"All because of that favor he owes your uncle?"

"I'm not sure. I think- it was because he wanted me to bring his case before you. He said that if I did, I could have sanctuary there as long as I needed it."

Martin huffed, leaning back. She listened to the creak of his chair.

"I'll consider it. Thank you for passing that along. At the very least, it lets me know what other parties are in play."

There were footsteps in the hallway, and Callista froze, listening to them. Martin stood, chair scraping against the floor.

"Probably time for another vote," he murmured.

The bell tolled, and Martin hummed, then stood.

"The last one?" Callista asked.

"It should be." The key turned in the lock. "Get some rest, if you can. You'll need it."

* * *

After what felt like both days and minutes, the lights sprang on, bright and unbearable. Callista couldn't close her eyes against them. Instead she stared up at the lamp until it burned its image into her eyes, and only then did she turn to look at the door.

The votes had been tallied.

It took several hours before Martin returned. The metal shutters opened, and she looked out for the first time in days on the outside world. It was raining, a torrential downpour slicking the roofs and streets below, and she unlatched the window so that she could breathe in the city's smoke-filled air. It was light out. Another night had passed while Martin was gone.

By the time Martin returned, she had cried with relief once, and was already doing a mental calculation of what day it might be, given the change in the weather and how long she thought had passed. As the lock turned, she rose from the cot and turned to greet him. Martin stepped in; behind him she could see Anise standing a short distance away, but then the door was shut again.

"Congratulations, High Overseer," Callista murmured, attention back on him.

He inclined his head, then grinned.

He moved past her to where his uniform sat folded in the far corner of the small room.

"Not the shortest conclave ever," he said, "but there were a fair number of candidates, and I didn't resort to having them all murdered." He laughed as he said it.

Callista watched, fixedly, as he tugged his loose shirt off. She swallowed, thickly. His back was tightly muscled, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow, and as he dropped his loose trousers, she could see that his calves were perfectly proportioned and curved. There were a few scars decorating his skin.

He tugged on his uniform pants, then glanced over his shoulder, amused by her silence. "Enjoying the show, Miss Curnow?"

She flushed, glancing away. "Sorry. It's a small room."

"That it is," he agreed, chuckling. She listened as he dragged on his undershirt and his uniform jacket, and looked back only when he was fastening his belt. "The tunic and pants were a gesture of obedience to the Oracles," he explained.

"I understand."

"A necessary evil, but I'll feel much better suited up. Even better when it's red."

Her gaze followed his hands as he pulled his gloves on, and then she huffed and stepped closer, reaching for his collar. It was slightly skewed, and she twitched it into place. Her knuckles brushed the stubble on the underside of his jaw.

His breath hitched. She looked at him, canting her head.

In the three or so days they'd been locked together in darkness, they'd rarely touched. They had dealt with the weight of the Oracle's pronouncements, and she with the horrors of what had happened at the pub, in silence. The darkness had provided solitude and protection.

Now, though, she could see his glittering eyes, and he could see her bare hands at work. Her throat felt thick as her hands trailed down the straps of his harness. She straightened them, too. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he batted her hands away.

"Let's get to work, then, Miss Curnow."

Callista nodded, and followed him out into the lit hallway.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

She spent the night in a nicer guest room, with lights and wine and a good meal. Martin had left her side shortly after they had all emerged from conclave, but she'd found herself newly exhausted, overwhelmed by her freedom from the timeless dark.

The next day, time dragged by slowly, and she filled it with research in the Abbey archives as she waited for Martin's word. Oracle Anise hovered nearby, and her presence deterred any of the Overseers from lingering near her. Callista paged through tomes of commentary on the Strictures, beginning with the Litany on the White Cliff. She drank in the exhortations, the commandments, the horrific punishments meted out to the citizens of Whitecliff for their heresy. It was harrowing, stirring work, and she was swept up into it. All thoughts of _accountability_ or the vagaries of men left her, and she was left only with the fear of what lay beyond the cities and beyond the light of progress, anger at those who would leave the righteous vulnerable by their actions, and a profound sense of isolation.

When at last she closed her books and blinked at the stark lighting of the room, it was only because there were voices in the hall. She strained to pick out Martin's, but it was absent.

Instead, it was a tailor, sent to collect her for her uniform fitting. She put her research materials back and smoothed her jacket over the firm lines of her corset, the motion clearing her cobwebbed, wary thoughts away and leaving only a background unease. Anise accompanied her and the tailor as far as the room that had been set aside for his work; then she took up a station by the door, and Callista was alone with the man.

He was a stranger, and before reason could interrupt, the thought filled her with deep foreboding. He was harsh, too, and thin, and she hesitated when he asked her to strip down to her underthings. But when it was done, he worked quickly, efficiently. He took measurements and wrote them down in a small book, and asked her a few brief questions about what her duties would be, so that he could make sure the garments allowed for them.

When he was done, he left her to dress. She fastened her trousers, then hesitated, standing there with her arms uncovered. She went to the window, and peered out into the street.

The cobblestones were slick with rain. Stormclouds had rolled in while she'd read. She spread her fingers against the glass, feeling the radiating chill. It was the Month of Nets, but the season hadn't warmed as it should, and she shivered.

The rains would be good for the planting, though. She reminded herself of the years she'd spent out beyond the city walls, where she had been safe and where she had watched crops grow from the soil and watched fish be hauled in from the sea. It was a curious consequence of cities, she decided, that made men hate the unknown. Her family had always had a healthy wariness of what might lie beyond the townships they lived in, but never the desire to burn it all to ash.

A knock sounded at the door only a few moments before it creaked open. Flushing, Callista turned, only to see Martin slipping into the room. He was alone, and she let out a breath, but still crossed quickly to where her jacket was draped across the back of a chair.

"Good, I caught you," he said. He was still wearing his dusky blue uniform. "I was hoping to get you alone. I have a meeting with Burrows in a few minutes, and I need you to do something for me."

"What is it?" she asked, gathering up the coarse fabric of her jacket and shrugging into it.

He closed the space between them. "The notebook," he said. "I want you to spend some more time working on it. I'd hoped to have a better sense of what was in it before Burrows sat me down, but couldn't find the time. Everybody seems to be taking it from me," he chuckled.

She watched, over her shoulder, as he came to stand just behind her, trapping her between him and the back of the chair. His voice was pitched low, and she glanced around, searching for any place a silent listener could be hiding.

Her gaze fell on the door. _Anise_.

She closed her eyes and took a breath, then straightened, focusing on the space in front of her. It was easier than looking at him.

"I'm afraid of your men, you know," she said. "They're not happy about my existence. If one of them were to- the notebook may not be safe with me."

Martin was silent for a moment, then sighed. "We need to make progress," he murmured, voice ghosting over her ear. "That passage you found about Attano and the Empress- I've made some headway, but I want your eyes on it. I need to know what happened three months ago if I'm going to handle Burrows with any amount of skill. Go to my office, the one you're familiar with."

He pulled a key from his pocket and held it out to her, at the level of her waist. She plucked it from his palm. "Burrows and I will be speaking in the formal conference room. You'll have time and comfort to work, and nobody should bother you there."

"Of course," she said, taking a deep breath. "And I have easy excuses at hand if anybody does."

"You're preparing for my move to the High Overseer's office," he said, and she nodded. "The notebook and my work is in the sideboard in what will appear to be my notes on a speech on the second Stricture. Keep those notes and references out as you work. Again, an excuse."

She nodded, slowly.

"It will be perfectly safe." He paused, then canted his head to get a better look at her face. "Has somebody threatened you? You seem more nervous than usual."

"I've been reading about the Siege of Whitecliff," she said with a weak laugh. "It's... harrowing reading."

"It is," he agreed, and offered a faint smile before straightening again.

"I'll feel better," she said, "when we have a system for this."

"I'll feel better when the whole thing is cracked, and I only need it for occasional reference," he said. He clasped her shoulder, tightly. "I'll see you when I'm free of all these obligations."

He offered her a final, confident smirk before he left the room. Callista watched him go, then took a deep breath, checked that her clothing was impeccably arranged, then followed him out into the hall. He was already long gone. She nodded to Anise.

Would the woman follow her into Martin's office?

"I have some private work to attend to," she said, softly.

"I'll accompany you to where you'll be doing it, then," Anise replied. "But no further."

Callista frowned.

"Currently, I'm here for your protection - not your observance," Anise said, then laughed. Her laugh was strange but sweet. At the end of the hallway, an Overseer hesitated, then moved a hand in what Callista was beginning to realize was an unspoken recitation of a Stricture, useful in dangerous situations.

"They're afraid of you," she said, wonderingly.

Anise nodded, and made a shooing motion. Callista set off towards Martin's office, Anise following at her elbow.

"Oh, very much so," Anise said. "Our orders are so separate and they understand so little of what we do that they think us witches. I've always thought," she added, voice lowering, "that they wouldn't think _men_ who live in the dark and see the future are witches, but who knows?"

Callista nodded, weakly. _Witches_. The Oracles certainly did seem that way. They were the ones who looked up into what was surely the Outsider's realm, or at the very least part of the Void. They used the stars hovering in the expanses of emptiness to tell the future. By Abbey doctrine, it seemed strange, dangerous.

And, of course, Benjamin Holger had said nothing of an Order of Oracles within his ranks.

"So you really do stay in the dark all the time?"

"Yes. When we can't - when we're in cities, for instance - we keep our eyes adjusted to the dark through various means. It helps with our observations of the stars."

"The red cloth?"

"Practical. The eye treats red light as if it were darkness. In red light, I can see as you do; but if the lights go out, I will still be able to see, and you will be blind."

"They use red lights on the newer whaling ships, don't they?" Callista asked. "At night, for the same reason?"

"I wouldn't know."

As they climbed the steps towards Martin's office, Callista heard the distant dysphonic sound of an Overseer's music box.

"Are they cleansing the place?" Callista asked.

"Yes. And they'll begin painting the funerary urns tonight, too, and arranging them amidst empty copies, the better to hide the earthly remains of those who came before us. Transition is a dangerous time. Borders are not as firmly set. Men are more easily corrupted, more easily turned to violence. Everybody will wear their masks tonight."

"Even Martin?"

Anise canted her head. "Do you think he will?"

She considered. "Only if he gains by blending in."

The words were out of her mouth before she could consider the wisdom of offering that insight up to the Oracles, and Anise's answering smile - not so kind this time, nor so sweet - made her heart tighten. The Oracles were not gentle women. They were closer to Martin's ilk; the High Oracle had said so herself.

Every scrap of knowledge Anise had offered her had been for a reason. To put her at ease? To bring her into a false sort of confidence?

They'd reached the door.

"Well," she said, reaching for the key Martin had given her, "thank you for explaining the painted kettles."

Anise didn't move. There was no reassuring shrug and her smile was only faint and polite.

Callista swallowed. "And thank you for the escort." She slipped the key in the lock, turned it, and quickly shut herself inside the office.

Her mind raced. The vast majority of the Abbey - and those who followed its every directive - were a frightened set. She had never truly counted herself among their number, despite her own fears. Their paranoia was of a different, all-consuming sort.

But the Oracles didn't seem to fear, and something about Anise's readiness to escort her made Callista wonder if what she feared was even reasonable. Yes, an Oracle had some protection against the Abbey from her status, but she and Callista otherwise weren't so different. If Anise was safe, perhaps Callista would have been safe as well.

It made an unsettling amount of sense that Anise would seek to build up that fear in her. Fear made men malleable. It was power.

Callista looked at the latch, then took a deep breath and walked once around the room.

She pulled down a book on Holger's Device that looked new, then went to the sideboard to pull out Martin's notes. The notebook was invisible, until she set all the work down on Martin's desk and began to page through. There was a book among the notes, the work inside attributed to High Overseer Tynan Wallace. The first few pages were scathing, terrified, violent tracts on the dangers of deception.

Beneath them, Martin had carved a nook out of the remaining text.

Callista glanced to the windows, the door, and behind her, to the crack she had peered through. All seemed unmanned, but she made a show of paging through the loose sheaves of notes. Her hands were not as quick as she imagined Martin's were, but she managed to, at last, lift the book by Tynan in such a way that she could pull the notebook from its hiding place and set it out as if it were simply another reference among the pile, and had always been there.

She left Tynan's work open to the third page.

_There are two types of liars_, it said. _The first is the liar of necessity. They lend their tongue to iniquity in defense of themselves. Make no mistake; this is not to be forgiven. Many a man has lied bitterly to avoid blame, or embarrassment, or even real harm, but there is no excuse for the warping of the truth, the replacement of memory with falsehood, the misleading of good men._

Callista swallowed, unable to pull her eyes away.

_The second is the liar of delight. They lie because it is in their nature; to speak the truth betrays them, and leaves them vulnerable. They are the most dangerous of liars. They are the conmen, the politicians, the true agents of the Outsider. They lie because there is something ill-formed inside of them, and the truth burns their lips and tongue. They will lie because it pleases them, even when there is naught to gain._

_These two species may work in concert or against one another, for there is nothing inherent in their duplicity that allies them. This is to the good man's advantage. Liars may be played off against one another. While some are wicked enough that they may weave stories extemporaneously together, many more will falter, will slip up, and will reveal themselves or bring themselves to ruin._

_The brand and whip, likewise, are expedient truth serums_.

She shut the book, feeling her breath rising up hot and uncontrolled within her. She settled a hand against her throat and closed her eyes, swallowing once, twice, trying to force it down.

Martin was _perverse_. He was mocking the whole Abbey. She imagined him over the past few days, securing his votes, using what was in his little notebook to cajole and threaten and destroy.

They would all know that he was a liar, and he would take up the mantle of High Overseer speaking out against the Lying Tongue?

Circumspection momentarily forgotten, she covered her face with her hands and pulled at her hair. She breathed deeply through her mouth, pushing aside the panic. Anger replaced it, momentarily, followed by a deep disbelief at just how confident he was, how audacious, how ridiculous.

She went to the sideboard again, this time for a shot of whiskey.

It burned her throat and left the hollows of her cheeks tingling, but it sorted out the mixed emotions quickly and stilled the fluttering fear in her chest. The High Oracle had said it herself - Martin was like her, and was well suited to his office.

Her eyes went back to the desk, and the small, unopened notebook. Thaddeus Campbell had kept many secrets of his own. Wickedness and lies were a requirement here.

And a requirement of hers was that she assist.

_The liar of necessity_. That was her role. She poured another generous glass for herself, then returned to the desk, settling into Martin's chair. She opened the notebook, moving by vague memory to the page she had read before, the page concerning Attano and the missing heir. The coded words seemed to dance before her eyes, refusing to settle or cohere.

She took a more measured sip of whiskey, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began the work anew as she had started the first time; she copied it out.

For hours she sat and paged between what Martin had already broken and the few notes he'd left about how he'd done it, and the weighty page that danced with blood and conspiracy. The code on this page was more meticulous, more strongly constructed. In time, Martin might have such a book of his own, if he ever trusted committing the information inside to paper. Would his cypher be so convoluted? Or would it be brutally simple?

What sort of High Overseer would he be, beyond one who would protect her for as long as she had influence?

The meaning unfurled only in fits and starts. She moved between pages, trying to grasp context. A large sum of money - upwards of twenty thousand gold coins - had been taken from Campbell's own private coffers to fund the hiring of Daud.

Burrows had supplied thirty thousand.

But Campbell had written, beyond his cypher, in a shorthand that made untangling details nearly impossible. When she came to the section about the Lord Protector, it was next to unintelligible. _Attano out of Dunwall_ was all she could make out, still, and it taunted her. Was it simply the opportunity that Burrows and Campbell had been waiting for? Or had Attano gone on that mission specifically to leave the Empress vulnerable? Had he been bribed? Tricked? He couldn't have done it fully willingly, or else he wouldn't be in Coldridge, but it would be dangerous to approach Burrows with any of this if they didn't understand the whole of it.

The office was growing dark when, by a fluke of luck or a trick of the light, or perhaps just the crossing of her eyes, the last bit of shorthand unfurled itself.

_Attano out of Dunwall. Daud to kill Empress._

Then later:

_Ship back two days early. Attano unable to stop Daud. Useful scapegoat._

Callista exhaled, shakily, and sat back.

Only a few lights had come on as dusk descended. She blinked against the dimness, and straightened up in her seat, massaging at her eyes tired from squinting. Somebody knocked at the door.

She quickly opened up Tynan again, slipping the notebook into its spot. She straightened up the papers on the desk, and, biting her lip, she rose and took her notes to the fireplace that still smoldered. She waited until the bright orange curling at the edges of unburnt paper were all gone, replaced with black char that crumbled to ash, before she went to the door.

As she approached, she watched the lock turn.

Martin opened the door. Callista relaxed. She smiled, politely.

"I thought you might have fallen asleep," he said, holding up his duplicate key and shutting the door behind him. His finger flicked against the latch.

"You don't announce yourself?"

"Not at the door to my own office." His gaze danced around the room.

_A liar of delight_, she thought, clasping her hands together and watching him closely.

"And what do you think of my sermon so far, Miss Curnow?" he asked, pitching his voice oddly as he moved towards his desk. As she watched, he bent to check a cupboard for something or other, very naturally - and moved it just a hair so that she could see that her observing spot was covered.

"It's- very effective," she returned. She watched as he straightened and turned, then caught sight of her whiskey glass. He glanced to the bottle, now notably more empty.

"I thought I smelled drink," he said with a soft chuckle. "Did it help?"

"A little," she said. "It calmed me down." She glanced to the door. "Is Oracle Anise-"

"Gone, for now," he said. He beckoned her over, and she came close to his desk. "Any notes?"

"I burned them."

"Then tell me what you found out," he said, opening the cover of Tynan and extracting the notebook for himself.

"Corvo is just a scapegoat," she said. "He knows that Burrows and Campbell hired Daud to kill the Empress. He wasn't supposed to come back as early as he did."

It all came out in a rush, and she straightened compulsively once it was out, watching Martin for any sign of reaction.

When it came, it was more subtle than she would have predicted. He didn't grin, or laugh, or even swear. Instead, he simply opened the book and turned to the appropriate page. He tapped the paper.

Then he smiled, faintly.

"Details?"

She began simply reciting what she remembered, but soon circled the desk and stood behind him, reaching past him to point out passages. He listened, rubbing at his chin with his leather-gloved fingers.

When he turned at last to look at her again, setting down the notebook, she could feel his breath ghosting against her cheek. She swallowed and pulled back.

"Good work," he murmured. "_Very_ good work. I'm quite indebted to you."

She cleared her throat, straightening her jacket. "What now?"

"Now we wait until we have a chance to use what you found." He quirked a brow. "You couldn't have thought we'd simply reveal it all and send him to trial?"

"It certainly would have been nice."

Now he smirked. "I'd want to pick his replacement, first. And find Lady Kaldwin. Burrows is a stubborn, self-controlled man. I wouldn't put it past him, if he were in Coldridge in Corvo's place, to go to his grave without revealing her location. Or to have a system set up so that she would be killed or worse should he be out of contact with her captors."

Callista shuddered. "I understand."

"That's enough of conspiracies tonight, I think."

She nodded, gratefully. "Anise said that tonight they'll be setting out the- the painted kettles," she said, trying not to let the fear in her bones mix with the whiskey in her stomach. She retreated around the desk. Martin's eyes followed her.

"I suppose I never did explain that bit of lore to you," he said.

"Will you be wearing your mask, like all the others?"

"One last time, for old time's sake?" he asked, laughing. Slowly, he rose from his desk and went to another cabinet, opening it to reveal his mask. He lifted it from its stand and turned back to her. The way he moved the mask caught the light in strange ways. "I suppose I could. It would be the traditional thing to do. But what about you, Miss Curnow?"

She frowned. "What about me?"

"That would leave you alone, the only unmasked creature in this whole building. You'd be a target."

Callista felt the shivers long after she'd already sagged against the desk. Martin watched her from afar, then came close enough that she could smell his aftershave, gently looping an arm around her shoulders and helping her straighten.

"It's superstitious nonsense, Miss Curnow. Nothing will come for you."

"You _want_ to scare me," she hissed.

"You've been reading Tynan and the Litany on the White Cliff. You're vulnerable. I appreciate your dedication to educating yourself, but most Overseers are led through the fear as young boys, in a structured environment. It's an environment meant to terrify and test, yes, and not all of them emerge on the other side- but it's structured. It's practiced. You're simply hurling yourself into the dark at full speed, with only me as your protection and guide."

"And Anise."

Martin's mouth thinned into a hard line. "I wouldn't trust Anise to guide you, or protect you."

"I think," Callista confessed, fighting the urge to lean against him and settle her head against his shoulder, "that she was stoking my fears. She told me she was escorting me to keep your rivals at bay, but that only made my fears of being attacked stronger."

"From what I understand, that's the Oracle way," he agreed. He gave her shoulders another squeeze, then pulled back - only to cup her cheeks in both hands. He searched her face.

"I have been remiss in my duties," he said. "I've left you floundering these last few days. I apologize, Miss Curnow. But tomorrow I will wear red, and you will be untouchable."

She swallowed, reaching up to touch his hands, lightly.

"I promise," he murmured.

Heat coiled in her belly, and her heart began to pound. But she made herself nod, hoping he would release her.

He didn't.

"Tell me what you need now, Miss Curnow," he said, voice firm.

"I want to feel safe."

"And what makes you feel safe?"

Her thoughts raced. She pictured her uncle, her mother, her brother - all unattainable things. Her apartment was gone. Her uncle's was still locked down. The room upstairs was small and filled with her terror.

She thought of sitting with Martin in the dark, his hand around her throat.

She considered asking, for half a second, what his goal was. Anise was driving Callista towards paranoia. Martin was laying out groundwork for her to come to him for- what? Control? Pain? The way he spoke to her at these times made him seem wholly consumed by her, caring and concerned, in control and willing to help.

It bound her to him, tightly.

But the alternative was to be borne up on storm swells and carried out to see on riptides. She would keep her head above water. She would do as she needed to do to stay in control, and she would watch the ropes tethering her to the shore to see if any rotted or caught on sharp stones.

"You," she said, "at times. You make me feel safe."

"Like in the dark?"

"And when I was bent across your desk."

He hummed, low in his throat, eyes narrowing. He inspected her. "I appreciate your trust in me," he said. "It is a great tool. Without it, my methods wouldn't work."

"I understand," she said.

"Do you still trust me? After I abandoned you?"

She laughed, weakly. "I understand the necessity of work, Martin. My uncle hardly abandoned me when he went out to sea with the Lord Protector."

He smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. Do you still trust me?"

Callista searched his face. This was dangerous for _him_ if she didn't trust him. She could take these perversities to his enemies. Perhaps they wouldn't care, but perhaps they would.

She nodded. "I do."

Martin let his hands fall. He stepped back, then walked in a slow circle around her.

"Everything I say, you will obey," he murmured. "Every word of mine is a command. If you question me, the work- the _game_- stops. That is your power."

"There's a way out."

"There's _always_ a way out," he said, smirking.

Callista shuddered.

"Get down on your knees," he said, and turned away from her.

She stared at his back. He went to pour himself a drink. Her legs felt frozen, and a question, a release, bubbled up in her throat. Her uncle had been very clear, when she was young and considering where she might earn her living, that no matter where she went, a man in power over her might try to use that to take from her what he wanted - and that if it was possible, if her life wasn't at stake, that she should resist. To be used by an employer would spell the death of her career as a governess.

And she had lived by that for years, avoiding the advances of older men, of tutors, of everybody except those who couldn't touch on her work - men at the docks, slaughterhouse workers, and masked faces during Fugue Feast.

But she'd never faced anything quite like this before.

Martin held ultimate power, but she had her own few touchstones of it. Slowly, she breathed into those places of strength, and lowered herself to her knees.

It was all done in the time it took for Martin to pour himself a glass of wine and turn around.

He moved to the seat behind his desk, the one Callista had sat in for hours, and settled in. He propped his ankle on the desk and lifted his glass to his lips. Callista met his eyes, and he smiled.

"I'll teach you to be bold as well as brave soon enough," he murmured, "but you might get to it before me. Come here, Miss Curnow."

She made to stand, and he raised his hand.

"On your knees still."

She had paused in an awkward crouch, and her knees throbbed half from the exertion of remaining upright, and half in time with the flare of shame and excitement that came at his words. Swallowing, she knelt again, then attempted to shuffle forward. It felt strange.

Tentatively, she put her hands on the fine rug as well. Martin inclined his head, and watched, unerring, as she crawled to him around the bulk of his desk.

Her throat felt dry, and everything else in the world fell away, leaving only the tension hanging between them. She reached his chair. He sipped at his wine, then set it aside on the desk and picked up Tynan instead.

He opened it to the unmarred pages, eyes skimming over the words, gloved finger marking his place.

"Tynan was a brutal, violent man," Martin murmured, not looking at her. Callista trembled, unsure if she wanted his attention or release from it. "He was also simplistic. A good Overseer, and a powerful High Overseer, but as a teacher... I find him boring. He was pious, too. His piety turned all his dark impulses into cruelty. It is a common story."

He sighed and closed the book, looking down at Callista once more. "Still, he's respected, and his ashes are even now being dressed up to protect him. My speech tomorrow will draw on his work, as will this sermon I'm writing. And when I quote him, I expect you to give no hint of your own transgressions. No looks of shame, no overwrought agreements that point to guilt. You will be still, and steady, and strong. Understood, Miss Curnow?

"You will do it for yourself, and, more importantly, for _me_."

"I understand," she managed, her voice cracked and tight.

"Good," Martin said, then held the book out to her, spine-first. "Put this away, then."

She lifted a hand from the rug, and he pulled the book back, _tsk_ing faintly. "Open your mouth, Miss Curnow. Let's give old Tynan one last bit of respect, and let him restrict your tongue for a bit."

Callista couldn't stop her whimper. His words sounded sinful, dark and utterly _wrong_. It sounded sensual. She searched him for any sign of arousal, but, like when he'd spanked her, she found none that she could be certain of.

She parted her lips, an inch at first, then wider, until Martin could wedge Tynan's treatise between her teeth. Inside its covers rested Campbell's notebook, and she closed her eyes a moment as she adjusted to the taste, the weight, and the _meaning_.

Martin withdrew his hand. The book dipped down, pulled by gravity. She lifted her chin and tightened her jaw, and only then opened her eyes.

Martin was gathering up his notes, and paid no attention to her.

Her body thrumming, breath coming in harsh rises and falls that jetted through her nose, she slowly turned on her hands and knees and crawled to the sideboard. He'd left it slightly ajar for her, she realized - or had she failed to close it earlier? She could catch the side of the cabinet door with the edge of the book, and she nudged it open until she could crawl forward and slide the book onto the shelf.

As she widened her jaw to release the spine, she touched the binding with her tongue and nudged it forward.

She was about to close the cabinet door with her chin when Martin's shadow fell over her. He bent down, close to her, and tucked his notes on the shelf as well. He paused, and she looked up to find him eyeing the damp spot on the binding.

He chuckled, softly, then shut the cabinet door for her. Without a word, he returned to his seat.

"Come here, Miss Curnow," he said, and she swallowed.

There was something very different about this time. The last two encounters, she'd been passive, receptive. She'd let him act upon her. Now, he was still very much in control - but he demanded her participation, not just her acceptance. She rolled the taste of the book's binding around her mouth a moment, then turned and crawled back to him.

"Up onto your knees proper," he said, when she was close enough that she could have bent to lick his boots.

She rose up, straightening, and he leaned forward in his chair. He caught his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up, then brought his wine glass to her lips.

"Drink. This is the sister to the Tyvian red you brought me that second night. I like it a little better, I think."

Callista parted her lips, and closed her eyes, unable to meet his gaze as he tipped the rich red liquid onto her tongue. The flavors bloomed in her mouth, thick with plums and a mineral tang, and she swallowed only when she feared she might choke on the volume he'd poured.

He pulled the glass away, and she opened her eyes to find him watching her, closely. She could feel her shoulders rising and falling, her heart hammering against the cage of her corset.

"Well?"

"It's very good," she said.

He smiled indulgently, then finished the glass and set it aside.

"And how do you feel?"

Her brow furrowed.

He leaned forward, and pressed his fingers to her temple. His thumb smoothed out the lines on her forehead. "Should I guess, and you can nod or shake your head? I want to know what you feel right now, Miss Curnow."

Slowly, she nodded.

"Is it only the two of us in this room, and is the room the extent of this world?" he purred.

She nodded.

"Do you feel... held? Connected to me?"

She nodded again.

"I feel-" she began, then stopped and swallowed down another breath.

He waited.

"I feel like I'm a different part of myself," she said. "A simpler part."

"A braver part," he supplied, and she nodded. "But you look tired, Miss Curnow. The exertion of only obeying, and not worrying or calculating, is strange, isn't it? I want you to stand up. I'm going to give you a reward, for how good you've been."

Callista stood, her knees creaking. One arm slipped around her waist, reflexively.

He didn't move to pull it away- but he did look at her, sternly, until she did.

"The first time we- indulged, you enjoyed that?" he asked, and his voice had grown thicker, deeper. "Or was it too much?"

"It was- cathartic," she whispered.

He couldn't help his smirk. "That was the intention, yes. But did you enjoy it?"

Callista considered. She turned over the narrowing of her world, the sharp flares of pain, the certainty, against all reason, that she was safe. "I did," she admitted, cheeks burning.

"Then go around to the other side of my desk, Miss Curnow, and place your hands flat on the table."

She tried for just a moment to read his intentions, his desires. He gained something from this, but she still couldn't fathom it. He enjoyed her obedience, of course, and her submission, but there was something else. He seemed to be clinging to this game of theirs as much as she was, even if he was better at mastering his tone, his gaze, his carriage.

She went to the other side of the desk and bent over, eyes never leaving his.

"Do you enjoy this?" she asked.

He sat back in his seat, brows raised in contemplation. "I enjoy the peace it gives you. I enjoy seeing your trust in me in action. And- yes, I enjoy doing this."

_Seeing your trust in me_. Yes, that sounded true enough. She nodded.

He watched her a moment longer, then stood and circled around her. She waited for the fall of his hand, the sharp blow that would signal the beginning. Her breath coiled in her throat, beneath the pit of anticipation that had lodged itself there, and she closed her eyes and bit her lip.

If he made her wait much longer, she might give in to begging.

But his hand finally came down, and the sharp crack of it striking her ass filled the room. It was louder than it was painful, but she gasped all the same, rocking forward.

His gloves were off; she could feel the difference even through her trousers.

He fell into the cadence of the other night as if it were second nature. The fear and overwhelming weight of her life was far from her this time, though, and she drank in the physical sensations as if they were honeyed wine. Each blow made her move, made her skin sting, made her body ache. Each sent spirals of shock up to her spine, and made her breath catch.

And each made her belly tighten with something a lot like lust, and which she refused to name.

His hand dropped lower, until he was striking her thighs, as well, and she bent closer to the desk, proffering them up to him. Her chest touched the wooden surface, and her hands slid along it until she could grip the edge. Before, she'd kept herself as upright as she could while still balancing herself. Now, she pressed herself to the unyielding plane of the desk, letting it support her, and letting it push back against her with every strike.

He was being harsher this time, pushing her beyond the stinging and throbbing until some of the blows were hard enough to leave bruises. He was probing at her limits, where the not-lust fell away, and her soft responsive noises turned to strained whimpers.

His hand came down one final time, jolting her against the wood hard enough to send the wine glass wobbling. She stared at it as it slowly steadied, still upright.

It was easier to think about than the way Martin's hand was sliding over her hip, and then the sudden heat and weight of him as he bowed over her.

His hand travelled up her side, around her front, passing lightly over her breasts - until it found her throat. His fingers curled lightly around it, and he guided her up off the desk until her back was flush against him. He was hard, his hips pressed firmly, unmoving, to the aching, throbbing curve of her ass. He pulled her head back, and she trembled, arms stretched out, fingertips barely grazing the table.

He gasped for breath, and she looked at him from the corner of her eye. His head was bowed, his brow furrowed. His eyes were closed, but he seemed to know she was looking. His hand tightened. His hips remained rigidly still.

His grip was tighter than it had been in the dark the other night, and she twitched, stretched taut, not sure if she should be afraid. Her hand found his, and she curled her fingers against his knuckles.

She opened her mouth to form a question, and his hand went slack. He released her. He stepped away, reaching up to run a finger beneath his collar. She watched as he smoothed his hair back, as he straightened his uniform.

"Is- that it?" she managed when he didn't turn to look at her. Her voice was hoarse and thick. She peeled herself from the edge of the desk, and began righting her own clothing.

She could still feel the weight of Tynan in her mouth, if she thought about it. She tried not to.

"Yes," he said, then cleared his throat and circled around the desk, putting its bulk between them. "You should get some rest, Miss Curnow. The installment ceremony is tomorrow morning."

He sat, and looked up at her at last. His expression was bland, carefully composed in its seeming ease.

She should have felt embarrassment, or shame. Instead, it sent another pang of longing through her. To distract herself, she tugged at the red band around her arm, loosening it.

Martin inhaled sharply.

She glanced at him with a quirked brow, as if to ask if he really thought she'd leave him now, and then settled the fabric around her throat.

His hand shook against the desk, tapping faintly, before he pulled it from the wood and focused on putting his glove back on.

"What are my duties, tomorrow?"

"Wear the uniform they bring you. Stand quietly to the side. You won't be a part of the main ceremony, so you have no duties to perform, or words to say. Though-"

"During Tynan, I'll comport myself. You don't need to worry. You've given me- a lot to think about, on his work."

She watched him for any sign of trembling, of flushing, but he had himself nearly mastered; she couldn't see any response.

"After," he said, "you'll accompany me to whatever meetings I have. I want you to start tracking those, by the way. Arrange them for me."

"Of course." She clasped her hands before her, pinching at her thumb to ground herself. "And tonight?"

"Isn't for you. Stay in your room - the building will be locked down."

Callista nodded, slowly.

"Go on, Miss Curnow. I'll see you in the morning."

She searched him for any sign of regret, or excitement, and found only that same composed blandness. He was already reaching for a folder set on the far corner of his desk, barely disturbed by their activities. He didn't look at her.

"Your key?" she asked, desperate for some last bit of connection. She reached for her pocket.

"Keep it," he said. "And you'll get another for my formal offices, probably tomorrow. Go _on_, Miss Curnow."

She nodded. "Of course. Thank you. For- everything."

That made the corner of his mouth twitch, though whether it was from satisfaction or shame, she couldn't tell. She didn't linger to find out. She curtseyed, then left the room, and made her way - without an escort - to her room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

In the morning, Anise delivered her uniform. It was impeccably made - something Callista had worried about while she tossed and turned in bed, wondering if maybe she'd be given shoddy clothing to humiliate her.

The fear had been pointless. She repeated that to herself as she dressed, ignoring the twinges of pain from her rear where the skin was ruddy and bruised. The collar of her uniform closed around the faint marks of Martin's fingertips. She arranged her hair until it was sleek and composed, then looked herself over in the glass.

The uniform was black, but it didn't read so much as a mourning suit as it did a military uniform combined with a maid's outfit. Her shoulders were still mantled, and her breeches ended at the knee, but the rest of the uniform was pure Abbey. The sleeves went down to her wrists and were embroidered with the interlocked crescent and trident, and the jacket was fastened just like Martin's - though her clasps were miniature Abbey emblems, instead of simple hooks.

There were little flashes of red; the jacket was lined with what felt like real silk, which was visible when she lifted her arms and her cuffs fell back, and instead of the black and white nested collar that Martin wore, there was a band of red around her throat. It broke up the expanse of black and gold, and she studied the effect a moment longer before straightening her shoulders and leaving the room.

Martin was installed as High Overseer over the course of the next six hours. The time was spent in long speeches, proclamations, and sermons, all given in the main receiving hall. Through open doors, everyone could see the painted urns confusing the memorial rooms, and while no respects were paid - the Abbey didn't believe in much beyond acknowledgment after death and cremation - the weight of history kept the affair solemn.

The Oracles made no appearances. It was only Overseers in the hall for the first four or so hours, and Callista bore up under their glances and stares as the morning wore on. Martin was resplendent in crimson, and his voice boomed out through the room, his silver tongue twisting his sermons from the average to the extraordinary. He was no theological luminary, but he knew how to arrange sentences, how to enunciate words, and more than once she shuddered not with the memory of crawling to him across the floor, but with the power of his speech.

At the four-hour mark, Hiram Burrows appeared to represent all the Empire, and speeches were exchanged on the nature of the relationship between the State and the Abbey. The tension in the room rose, slightly, but the hawkish Regent knew the words to the scene perfectly. He and Martin exchanged symbolic gifts - a magnifying lens, a trident, and a flame from the Abbey, in exchange for a pen, a coin, and a sword from the State - before Hiram bowed, reaffirmed his commitment to the Strictures, and left.

She watched him go, thinking of the Lord Protector rotting in prison, and the Empress's body reduced to ashes.

The final speech was the sermon on Tynan. Martin didn't speak directly about liars, but he did speak about doubt, and fear. He whipped up both in his men, only to soothe it back down.

"My gaze," he said, "is not restricted, but it also does not wander. It is controlled. To restrict is to acknowledge a darker impulse, and to hide from it. But to control is to see the impulse, acknowledge it, and work to dismantle it from the root.

"My tongue does not work lies, and so I do not restrict it; instead, I focus on what is said, not how much.

"My hands are put to industry, not out of fear, but out of joy, and a desire to see things built, and not torn down.

"My feet do not rove. I have travelled far, and I know that men everywhere are the same, in their fears, their failings, and their capacity for strength. I know that wherever man has established civilization, the Abbey can protect his doorstep and his alleyways. Everywhere I step, I step with purpose.

"My hunger is checked; I eat when I am hungry, but no more. To eat without moderation, without concern for the plates of those around you, is to cause harm. To empty your own plate for others, though, is to set yourself above them. It is folly. It is pride.

"My flesh is not wanton," he said, and Callista took a deep breath, keeping her face still and impassive. "It is proud folly to state that a man does not respond to beauty, or that a man's body does not have needs. Without these impulses, there are no families, and little art. It is only when these impulses become unbridled, and show themselves in perversities, in over-indulgence, in obsession, that the flesh can be said to stray. And so we exercise _control_. We control ourselves around objects of desire, and we distance ourselves from them if they provoke in us dark feelings. But to mortify the flesh, or to punish the object- neither accomplish anything except to help us dwell on those feelings. Better to acknowledge them, and then turn away."

Callista straightened, her toes curling in her shoes. She remembered how he'd drawn away the night before. It made sense, she supposed. Overseers were not bound unwaveringly to chastity, but it was certainly expected, and important.

And she suspected his control had slipped the night before.

"This all stems from the final Stricture. My mind is united in a single purpose. It allows me to exercise control over my impulses, which arise from the world, and from within me. Because it is not fractured, it can consider each impulse, and school it into adherence. Every man in this room possesses the same united mind, for we have all trained and practiced to keep our thoughts in check. Every man in this room has the ability to _control_ himself, beyond simple restrictions. The impulses will come; they will strike at our defenses, sometimes batter them down to near nothing, and we will be _tempted_.

"But the control that we have learned in our war against heresy, against the Outsider, will be our preservation. We will not hide from those impulses that frighten us. No, we will behold them, in their wretchedness, and we will tear them down as they threaten to tear us down, and we will cast them aside.

"For man's greatest strength, his triumph over the cruelty of the Outsider, is his ability to fight the Outsider back. We do not shrink. We do not hide. We control what is within ourselves, and then what is within this city, and we will drive back the darkness until it, too, is controlled in full."

Out in the streets, such talk would have produced cheers. She could see the same exhilaration in the Overseers lined up in the hall, but none moved - until one, slowly, lowered to his knees. Others followed, bowing their heads.

Soon, the chant went up.

"Long live High Overseer Teague Martin," echoed through the hall.

As it built, Callista knelt as well, and Martin's gaze found her. His lips tightened in what she now knew was the faintest, most careful smile.

_Control_, she reminded herself, and leant her voice to the chant.

* * *

The next four days were filled with endless meetings. Callista followed at Martin's elbow, taking notes, observing, and play-acting as his assistant until it slowly began to feel normal. She was silent unless they were alone, at which point she asked questions in rapid-fire succession, and took down his thoughts.

They traded off poring over the notebook. Callista continued working at the section concerning Attano and Daud, while Martin moved back to earlier pages, looking for clues on whose favor he needed to secure. Both were interrupted multiple times by men sent by Burrows, who had new questions, new invitations.

Martin received six invitations to dinner in the first day.

She asked him, once, if he would consider penning a quick letter with his new authority to have her uncle's apartment released to her, but he waved her aside and told her it would have to wait. Which was how she found herself, on the first night Martin accepted a dinner invitation, sitting in his new, grand office considering his signature.

He had left only half an hour before, immaculate in his crimson uniform, and would be with the Ladies Boyle for the next three hours, at least. That gave her time. She should have had her attention focused on the notebook, but she was growing weary of it, and of her small guest room, and of her seeming imprisonment in the Abbey. She wanted her uncle's apartment. She wanted to walk its rooms, and reconnect herself to her past, link herself to it so that she couldn't be pulled from the shore.

And Martin's support was a given - it was only a matter of time.

Geoff had taught her, when she was about to move out on her own for the first time, how to forge his signature. It had been a precaution, a weapon as sure as the pistol he'd given her. If a time came where she needed protection from the Watch, she could draft an order and sign it in her uncle's name - and he would support it, whatever it was.

He'd started by having her trace the lines of his signature through thin paper, but each copy had looked strange. It hadn't been his. Most of the Watch would never have noticed, but he was determined that there be no room for doubt. If the signature was her weapon, her armor would be its perfect mimicry of the original. It had to be perfect.

So he'd turned the page with his signature upside down, and asked her to copy it that way. There were no letters, only curves, and she'd done a far better job. It had still taken several weeks of practice before she could resist the urge to sketch in the curve of the G, but at the end of it, she produced perfect copies, sometimes even without a reference.

Callista reached out and touched the page with Martin's signature. He'd asked her to have it delivered to the Academy earlier that day, but she'd conveniently left it in one of the piles on his desk. It bore a perfect specimen of his signature, large enough to study, and with a deep breath, she rotated the page.

She rotated the page she'd drafted as well.

Martin would surely hold up what she was about to sign his name to, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to ask permission. No, he would have to support her after she had the apartment back, as he had when she'd claimed she was his assistant.

Callista readied her pen, and moved it in loops in the air, practicing his scrawl a few times. Then she put it to paper and emblazoned the order with a more than adequate copy of Martin's name.

As she set the pen down, there was a knock at the door. Callista stiffened; the ink needed a minute or more to dry properly, and there was still the seal to affix. But it couldn't be Martin, returned already.

Smoothing her uniform and tugging a few pages over the contents of the letter, she went over who else it could be. Another Overseer would be most likely. She went through her lists of meetings. She hadn't scheduled anybody for this evening, but it was possible that Rothwild had mistaken the time.

Or it could be Anise.

She went to the door and opened it before whoever it was could knock again.

It _was_ Anise on the other side of the door. Callista had barely seen her since the installment ceremony, but her presence had been felt. Other Overseers had whispered about her, and more than one had asked Martin when the Oracle would be leaving.

"Good evening, Oracle Anise. I'm afraid the High Overseer is out for the next few hours."

"That is unfortunate," Anise said. She was still wearing her blindfold; since the first Oracle had retrieved her from the pub, Callista hadn't seen any of them wearing the strange, unsettling domed masks. "May I come in, all the same? I can say what I need to say to you as well as I can to him."

Callista eyed her for a moment, then nodded and stepped away from the door. "I'm afraid I can't offer you anything to drink, without his permission."

"Guards his cellars, does he?"

Martin hadn't actually asked her to check with him before pulling from his wine collection, but Callista found it an easy excuse to avoid hosting the woman longer than necessary. "He does," she said, as she led them over to the sitting area far from the desk. As always, Anise found her way. The light in the room must have been good enough to pass through the blindfold

The Oracle settled into her seat, hands placed on her knees. The mask was gone, but she was still covered from neck to toe to, and her hood was drawn up over her hair.

"I will be leaving shortly," she said.

Callista tried not to show her surprise. "So soon?"

Anise's smile took on that cruel edge again. "The High Oracle doesn't want me to overstay my welcome. I'll return, of course - in a few weeks, a few months - and in the meantime, our offices will communicate in other ways."

"I see."

"I would like," she continued, "to not only establish a correspondence with High Overseer Martin, but also with you. Separate, and confidential."

Callista leaned back in her seat, the better not to hunch forward in sudden wariness. "You want me to spy on him."

"_We_ want two separate records of events, the better to compare with other sources. We prefer to find the truth of things. Not all of it is answered by the stars, not yet."

"And where will these letters need to go?"

"The tower of the High Oracle, off the shores of White Cliff - eventually. But for now, you will only need to leave them-"

"I will not leave correspondence about the inner workings of the Abbey anywhere that heretics might find it," she said, quickly.

"You'd rather Martin know you were sending us reports?" Anise asked, canting her head.

"Yes," she said. "It's a weakness, a vulnerability, otherwise."

"Then send your letters with his - he'll know where to take them. Perhaps I'll ask for a transporting case with two sides, each with its own key. Or will he have access to your key, as well?"

"I can keep a key," she said, teeth on edge.

"Of course you can," Anise said. She began to rise.

Callista rose as well, mastering her breath.

"Any last questions, Miss Curnow?" Anise asked, her voice still even and placid. With her eyes hidden, it was impossible to make out her expression.

She had a hundred; what they saw when they looked at stars, how they resisted the call of the Void- but she would find other ways to learn those answers.

"No," she said. "Thank you for your assistance these last few days, Oracle Anise."

"Be safe, Miss Curnow. I'll watch for you in the movements of the Void," Anise said. Callista watched as she bowed, then retreated from the room.

_The Void_. She shuddered, unable to untangle whether or not Anise's last words had been a threat.

* * *

Timsh's house towered above her, and she took a moment to steel herself. The letter in her hand seemed to burn as she approached the door and spoke with the doorman. While she gave her name and credentials, she noted his uniform. He was a man of the Upper Watch, and his presence made her uncomfortable.

Since when had even the rich barristers been able to purchase the deployment of Watchmen to their individual homes? The nobles, she knew, had long done just that - but they often contributed great sums to the Watch as a whole. It had been a gesture of gratitude on Geoff's part to send a few men to the estates on gala nights. Who was sending them now?

And when had a barrister gained so much influence?

The doorman disappeared into the house, and she waited as patiently as she could. The light was beginning to fail, and though the avenue was broad and well-patrolled, and her car was only a few feet away with two Overseers waiting for her return, it was hard not to feel her old wariness, or to let it combine with her guilt over the letter.

Finally, the doorman returned and waved her inside.

"Callista Curnow, assistant to High Overseer Martin," he said as they entered the foyer.

Arnold Timsh waited for them on the steps. She recognized him in an instant; he was the tall, thin man who had been present at her apartment building, the night she'd seen it condemned.

"Ah, Miss Curnow," he said, not descending to greet her. "To what do I owe the- pleasure, of such a late-evening visit?"

Her jaw tightened. It was foolish, to come so late, but Martin would have missed her at any other time.

"I've come to deliver an order from the High Overseer."

"That's not his jurisdiction," Timsh said, eyes narrowing. "I answer to the Lord Regent, Miss Curnow."

"Perhaps," she said, lightly, glancing to the doors to several offices visible on the main floor, "you can review the letter and we can discuss it in more detail?"

He eyed her. She waited for him to simply instruct her to leave the letter with him, but after a moment's consideration, he turned and lifted a hand. "Very well. My offices are above."

She followed him up two flights of stairs, passing a striking, vibrantly colored painting of the man in question. She caught a glimpse, too, of the second floor mezzanine, with its plush chairs and fine fixtures. At last they came to his handsome office, which was almost as large as Martin's. He settled behind his desk, folding his hands across his chest.

Callista held out the letter. He took it, turning it over and inspecting the quality of the paper.

"While you answer to the Lord Regent," Callista said, lifting a brow, "doing a favor for the High Overseer would not be without its own rewards."

He waved her into one of the low-slung armchairs across from his desk, and she sat on the edge of it before making herself relax, projecting Martin's style of confidence instead of her own hunched, pinched caution.

Timsh reached for a letter opener, breaking the seal of the High Overseer, then read over the order itself.

"Hmph. So his first act towards me is to get his _assistant's_ house back?" he asked, looking up at her. He'd drawled _assistant_, almost sneered it, and she could feel his gaze prickling over her, measuring her.

"You said yourself, this is not his jurisdiction. He is doing me a favor."

The letter _had_ been started by Martin, but he'd abandoned it half-finished. She'd copied what he had out into her own hand, then continued the argument. According to the order, her uncle's apartment had not been seized in connection with the plague, which made Timsh's authority to hold it questionable. Its connection to a traitor was undisputed, but the apartment had been cleared of all evidence by both the Watch and the Abbey. It was, at current, standing empty, when it should be returned to the existing next of kin.

His gaze returned to roughly that section of the page.

"But if I recall," he said, tapping the heavy paper, "you denounced your uncle, and severed your ties with him. You disowned him. You're hardly next of kin."

"The apartment should revert back to the family it belonged to, instead of being tied with the member that was cast out," she replied, smoothly.

He glanced up at her again. "Then you maintain he was a traitor, and deserves to be caught, tried, and executed?"

"Of course," she replied.

She'd practiced this daily since entering the Abbey proper.

"Surely," he pressed, "the apartment is... distasteful to you, then. A reminder of his wretchedness. I'm sure I can find another suitable set of lodgings for you, if the Abbey is being so negligent to deny you."

"I would like to reclaim the space. Better that a proper Curnow do it than somebody unfamiliar with the situation. It would be a symbolic gesture, as well as an efficient one."

He tossed the order onto his desk and sat back, narrowing his eyes.

"Your employer," he said, "is walking a very fine line, Miss Curnow. This is quite obviously favoritism, _and_ it's outside the bounds of his authority. He should consider this carefully. It might create quite a stir."

"Less of a stir, I'd think," she said, "than if he kept his young assistant locked in the Abbey with all the Overseers."

"Very _different_ stirs, perhaps." He folded his hands together, tapping one long, ringed finger against his knuckles. "I'll need to think it over. I suggest that he does, as well."

"This isn't a request, Barrister Timsh," she said, eyes narrowing. "And I am not just an errand girl."

"You have no _real_ power, girl," he sighed. "And it's humiliating to see you act as if you do. You're there to do whatever it is he has you do - pour his wine, warm his bed, flatter his guests. But the Abbey will not recognize you formally. You have no actual rank."

"The High Oracle confirmed my position," she said, flushing. She felt no embarrassment, however.

Only rage.

She struggled to control it.

"And what do we in Dunwall know of the High Oracle? The Oracular Order holds sway only in the Abbey. For somebody claiming such influence, you need a sharp education on the way things work. So go tell your master that he should really consider if crossing me is the correct decision, hm? And while you're at it, feel free to repeat all I've told you. He'll agree with me, if he's smart."

Callista shot up from her chair, but before she could cross to the desk, there was a knock. Whoever it was didn't wait for Timsh's permission, and Callista turned, half-expecting to see Martin.

Instead, it was two servants carrying a painting. It had the same vibrant colors as the portrait on the stairs, the same strange style, but this painting was of a woman. Timsh swore, softly, then stood and went to it, holding out one shaking hand towards the canvas.

"They didn't have to remove any of the painted surface, sir," one of the maids carrying it said.

"They've changed the surface, somehow," he said, staring at the work.

Callista stared at it, too. The woman's face seemed otherworldly. Dangerous. The colors drew her forward, and she edged closer to Timsh. She could feel something pulsing from it, then realized it was the sound of her own heart, beating in strange tempo.

"They- they varnished it, sir. They said it would keep the beetles off it in the future. They've taken your portrait for the same treatment-"

"What! Get it back here. They should have checked, damn it!" he snarled, and the maids retreated, still holding the painting. "Stop! Give it here!"

The maids surrendered the portrait, and Timsh seemed to calm only once his fingers curled around the gilded frame. He stared at the woman in the portrait a moment longer, schooling his breathing, before carrying it behind his desk. He leaned the frame gingerly against the wall.

"Out," he said, and the maids retreated. Callista made to follow them, but was interrupted by Timsh's harsh, "Not you."

The maids closed the door behind them. Callista turned, slowly.

Something about the painting seemed to shiver as she approached, and Timsh's face had grown relaxed. He watched her with feral eyes.

_Ah_. This was the part where he'd offer her an alternative. She could see it now - the bargain of debasing herself for access to her uncle's home.

She considered it, before deciding that the ramifications to her position at the Abbey were too great. If she really did have little power, stripping away what was there would be foolish.

But Timsh didn't speak. He only watched her, then looked back at the order on his desk. He brushed his fingers against the page, and the motion looked strange, out of place, with his thin, harsh features.

He reached for a pen.

"Barrister Timsh?" she asked.

"I've changed my mind," he said, the cadence of his words changed from how he'd spoken earlier.

There was nothing strange about it except for the style. Timsh followed her gaze. "It's a one of a kind," he said. "Painted by one of Sokolov's better, but little known, apprentices. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed, pulling her gaze from it.

She watched as Timsh smiled and signed the order and stamped it with his seal.

He pushed the paper across the desk to her.

"Thank you," she said, "for reconsidering."

He chuckled, softly, as she gathered up the page. "Art moves me, Miss Curnow. You're lucky to be the benefactor of it."

Callista's eyes went to the painting, but it was just pigment on canvas. "I hope they retrieve your portrait before it's varnished."

"They will," he said. "Now. I have business to attend to."

Callista left the room with the order clutched in her hands, mind spinning from the barrister's rapid moodswing. She'd never seen anything like it. At least, she supposed, it was hard to imagine him arguing his incapacity to do his job when his signature was in her hand.

She had her uncle's apartment back.

She took a deep breath, and set out to reclaim it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The next morning, Callista took stock of what remained of her uncle's life.

Most of the apartment had been gutted. The walls remained, the wallpaper the same as it always had been, but the mattress had been taken, as had many of the shelves, most of the books, and all of the weapons he'd collected over the years. Some were bound to be in Abbey possession, and they could, in all likelihood, be retrieved.

But some would be gone forever. The sword given to him by the lover he'd lost at sea might pass into some rich noble's hands, its meaning lost. The pistol he'd received from the Duke of Serkonos in thanks for his service in protecting one of the larger cities from a several-months long assault by pirates might pass into a collection, or be melted down for its fine metals.

Callista had slept on the one couch that remained, the most worn and least impressive of all the furniture in the set of rooms. She'd left a note for Martin when she'd left for Timsh's, explaining that she had some affairs to attend to and would be back the following morning. Nobody had come for her, and for that she'd been grateful.

Now, though, she worried about her return. She would have to tell Martin what she'd done, if she were going to continue sleeping here. He'd back her, surely, but that didn't mean he'd be proud of her. It might close off a door.

But maybe that was a good thing; the other night, Martin had crossed a line he hadn't wanted to cross. She'd seen it in his face.

She walked through the rooms once more.

All the windows were intact. The house was dusty with disuse, but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. And it was _hers_, as long as she kept the order signing it to her. She'd written it in such a way that it couldn't be superseded.

Timsh either hadn't noticed, or hadn't cared at the point where he'd signed it.

She tucked the order into the inner pocket of her jacket, then went about locking the apartment up.

The railcar didn't need to take her far; her uncle's apartment was only a short walk from John Clavering. But she enjoyed the ride, and she enjoyed the way she no longer had to ask questions or be stopped as she entered Holger Square. She found Martin in his office.

He looked up, faintly surprised.

"You were gone all night," he said, lightly.

"I took my uncle's apartment back."

His brow crept up. "How?"

She touched her breast, where the paper was kept. "I finished the order you were drafting."

"I don't recall signing it." His eyes glittered.

Carefully, Callista extracted the page from her pocket. She slipped it from its envelope, approached Martin's desk with slow, measured steps, then held it out to him.

He could tear it in two. She held her breath.

He unfolded the page and read over it. When he arrived at his signature, he chuckled. "Very nice, Miss Curnow. Where did you pick up _that_ little talent?"

Her shoulders sagged. She couldn't see a trace of anger in him, either in the set of his jaw or the stiffness of his shoulders. No- he was only amused.

Maybe impressed.

"My uncle. It was so I could forge documents with his signature, if I needed to protect myself."

"A very, very useful skill. And Timsh's? He was making some noise this morning - quietly, privately - about his signature on a particular document of mine being faked."

_He already knew_. It was a relief. Callista slipped into the chair opposite Martin. "He signed it," she said. "I watched him do it. But it was a near thing. He... didn't appreciate you telling him what to do."

"Did you use a fist or a soft hand, Miss Curnow?"

"I left it open to interpretation. I told him he might find it beneficial to cooperate with you."

Martin's chuckle turned into a barked laugh. "And his paranoia twisted that, I'm sure, to the darkest threat he could imagine."

"He thought," she said, slowly, "that I was pathetic, and told me that we should re-evaluate what our place was."

Martin tapped the page with his finger, then folded it and handed it back. "So why did he sign it, then?"

"... Do you want my honest opinion?"

"Always," he said, leaning back in his seat. "Though quickly- we have an appointment."

"We?" Her brow furrowed. His schedule should have been open.

"I made the plans last night, at the dinner. Now, go on. He didn't sign it because?"

"A mood swing."

Martin reached for his cup of thick, bitter coffee, waiting.

Callista frowned, rolling the thoughts about in her head. "His voice changed cadence, just a little, and it was as if he'd almost forgotten he was angry. He was focused only on this painting of his. He said it was painted by one of Anton Sokolov's apprentices, and when it was brought into the room, it was like he was bewitched. And then he simply- signed the order."

"Did he say why?"

She shrugged. "He said that he'd changed his mind. That was it. Then he sent me away."

Martin sipped at his drink, frowning thoughtfully. "What do you make of it all?"

"I'm not sure," she confessed. "It's not as if I know the man. If it had been, say, my uncle, or you, I suppose- it would have looked suspicious. Like something unnatural was going on."

"_Something unnatural_," he repeated, then chuckled. "It would be a stretch, but we could make the argument. I've met the man before. He's usually quite pompous and sure of himself, and he doesn't equivocate. Neither does he go back on many decisions. You say he was transfixed by this painting?"

"Yes. It used colors I'm not sure I've ever seen before. It was brought to him just as he was sending me away. He was furious - the restorers had varnished it. He took it from the maids, ordered them to fetch the portrait of him - in the same style - from the restorers before they ruined that one, too. After that, his mood changed, and he was willing to sign the document.

"But I don't see how a painting-"

"In the right light, anything can be heretical, Miss Curnow. At least enough to justify an initial raid the place, possibly by a squad that lacks explicit directions from me to do so. Take the paintings he's so fond of. Maybe, if he keeps being an obstructionist ass, I'll do just that. In the meantime - can he take the apartment back?"

"No. I wrote in that bit of language we'd been toying with, that would allow me to keep the apartment until my death, of plague or otherwise."

"Good. I'm glad that's taken care of. _Now_," he said, draining the last of his coffee and standing, "we have our appointment."

"Where?"

Martin grinned. "Coldridge Prison."

* * *

They met the Lord Regent on the causeway into the jail. He stood surrounded by several guards, tall and narrow, his skin grey in the thin morning light. His eyes narrowed as they alighted from their railcar.

"I don't recall inviting your assistant, High Overseer," he said as they approached.

"Where I go, she may go, Your Eminence," Martin responded smoothly. "The High Oracle has approved of it."

"And if I don't?"

"It is an Abbey matter, alas."

Burrows' eyes narrowed still further, before he sighed and waved a long-fingered hand. "Of course."

Despite his dismissal, his gaze returned to her again and again as they passed through the front gate of the prison. She did her best to ignore him, following just slightly behind Martin. She mimicked Martin's posture, with his lifted chin and slightly narrowed eyes.

The tension was already threatening to strangle her.

It was unclear how much Burrows knew about Campbell's journal, or what Martin might know - but he was clearly paranoid, set to fear the worst. On the drive from Holger, Martin had laid out the situation for her. Burrows wanted Martin for an ally desperately - it gave him legitimacy and another branch of military support. It also closed off one very large vulnerability. If the Abbey were to oppose him, he would be unable to oppose it in turn without destabilizing the empire, and fracturing the city. If Martin opposed him, he would have to find a way to convince the people that it was acceptable.

The gifts, therefore, had begun arriving the night of Martin's installment.

There were whole cases of wine and brandy new to the Abbey cellars, and Burrows' symbolic contribution to the Abbey's coffers had been sizable. He had even mentioned, at the dinner the night before, that there were certain parcels of land outside the city and in Serkonos that might be signed over to Martin, should he want them.

Despite all the gifts, he'd still hidden his hand quite well. He was nervous, to be sure, but he hadn't mentioned the Empress's assassination, and when Martin had asked about visiting Attano, Burrows had agreed for the sake of the Abbey's support in securing his confession, but it had taken some convincing.

"What would have happened," Callista had asked, leaning against the inside of the railcar door, "if you'd told him that we knew? That we support him?"

"He's too paranoid," Martin had said. "He would have assumed it was a ploy. Which it would have been. Besides, then he would know we have a source - and he wouldn't know how much we could find out. He would have panicked. No, we need something - the heir, preferably - to protect us from retaliation."

"But he can't trust Attano not to talk to us."

"It's easy enough to write off the ravings of a condemned man," Martin said. "We just have to agree with the public story, until either he brings me into confidence - which he might do, for more support, if he feels that I'll agree with his decisions - or we find Lady Kaldwin. Even then, it might be best to stick to the official yarn. I wouldn't want the city to tear itself apart."

Now, Burrows showed no sign of trusting them. His posture was rigid as they were escorted by the warden to the interrogation room. They paused in an antechamber, where Burrows poured himself a finger of strong drink, barely remembering to offer Martin some in turn.

The two men drank, and Burrows' knuckles were white where he gripped his glass too tightly.

Martin was jovial. He made sharp, darkly amusing comments about how Coldridge compared to the Abbey's dungeons. Burrows didn't respond.

Callista cleared her throat. Burrows turned and glared at her.

"What is the current theory," she asked, "on why Attano murdered the Empress?"

Burrows regarded her with a barely restrained curl of his upper lip. "Given your uncle's recent deeds, I suspect a conspiracy was hatched on that diplomatic trip of theirs. I would have very much liked to get my hands on Captain Curnow. Tell me, how goes the Abbey's search for him? My men lost him somewhere east of Potterstead."

Callista bristled, lips thinning to a bare line. If there was a search on, Martin had kept her insulated from it. Her gratitude mixed with her frustrated anger.

She exhaled, remembering Timsh. She refused to need the intervention of a painting to turn this encounter around, and she went to the table, pouring herself a drink. "I haven't had time to help coordinate the search," she said, "given all the orders our office has needed to draft in the last several days."

Martin's eyes glittered with approval. "We believe Potterstead to be a red herring. I'm interested in this theory, though. Given the Captain's military experience, he did a very sloppy job of killing Campbell. It appeared to me more like a crime of passion than a premeditated assassination."

"The Empress and the High Overseer are violently murdered within three months of one another, and you don't suspect a connection?"

"I think the violence of the lower city has a tendency to spill over into the upper reaches during times of great strain. I've seen it happen before, in Morley."

"We are hardly a backwater country in rebellion, High Overseer," Burrows sniffed. "Do you have another theory?"

Martin shrugged. "I have never met the man. I defer to your judgment."

Burrows eyed Martin a moment longer, then swallowed down the rest of his glass and set it aside. "They should have him safely trussed up by now," he said, stalking past Callista and to the door. "I warn you, he has become bestial in captivity. And the lies he spits - sometimes I wonder if he's delusional, as well as violently unhinged."

The warden stepped forward to unlock the door, and Burrows said something too soft and quick for Callista to catch. Then he stepped forward into the room, and Martin and Callista followed. She was struck by the acrid stench of sweat and stale piss as she passed the threshold.

It was a room with a single function - the breaking of a man. In a chair bolted to the floor was Attano, haggard and pale. He was shackled in place, and his hair and beard had grown long and unkempt. He glared up from beneath his dirty brow at Burrows, then looked at Martin - and went still.

"Hello, Corvo," Martin said, smoothly. He didn't seem perturbed by the dried blood on the floor, or the implements of torture lined up on the fine desk beside an audiograph machine. He also hadn't acknowledged the hulking, grotesque man lurking behind Corvo, who seemed as if he belonged not at Coldridge but in an abattoir.

"Campbell?" Corvo rasped.

"Was unfortunately murdered just shy of three weeks ago. My name is Martin."

Corvo laughed, then, a weak but vitriolic sound, and he spat. He said nothing, made no proclamations or threats, but she saw something come loose inside of him.

It made sense. Campbell had been there the day Jessamine was killed, and had helped imprison Corvo and torture him for months.

The man was probably ecstatic. It had to be the first spot of good news he'd had since he saw his Empress murdered in front of him. One of her murderers - one of three - was gone.

Of course, Martin wasn't necessarily a welcome replacement.

"I would like," Martin said, leaning against the heavy wood of the desk, "to hear your version of what happened the day you killed the late Empress."

"I didn't kill her," Corvo hissed, but said nothing more.

"Yes, his excellency did mention you've refused to confess. But from all the evidence I've seen-"

"The evidence is wrong."

Martin's lips curled mirthlessly.

"As I told you," Burrows said, waving a hand, "the man is quite recalcitrant. Your predecessor agreed with me that putting him to the brand and lash was the most expedient way of reminding him of how desperate his situation is, and the value of a quick, full confession. Not only will it cut short his suffering, but it will put the city at ease, as well."

"I agree," Martin said.

Callista said nothing.

The interrogator - for that was the only person the hulking creature could have been - stepped forward without a word. Callista took a deep breath, and met Corvo's eyes. His gaze slid off of her; he barely saw her as he stared past her to where the interrogator lifted a twisted brand, freshly cleaned and warmed in a gas flame.

When the screaming started, Callista turned her attention to Martin and Burrows only. She gagged at the stench of burning flesh, and she retreated into herself at every fresh howl. Corvo refused to beg. He refused to crack. And for each breath that he didn't repent, and didn't fall in line with Burrows' plot, he was punished for it. The tang of blood joined the odor of burnt skin and hair, and Callista moved to the desk, closing her hand hard around the edge of it.

Looking up, she saw a gigantic reproduction of the painting commemorating Burrows' installment as Regent towering over her. She closed her eyes and made herself turn back around.

Twice, anger surged through her, and both times it was directed at Martin. He had talked Burrows into this visit, and there was no way it could have ended in anything other than pain and suffering. In a way, it was he who was holding the brand, the pincers, the blade. That he stood by and played his role perfectly only turned the wretched pit of her stomach molten.

But she played her part, too, standing still and watching Burrows for any hints as to his thoughts.

Eventually, Corvo could only moan. Whatever enjoyment Burrows derived from seeing him in pain - and he did, quite clearly - dropped off sharply as Attano began drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Only a little progress today," Burrows said, looking at Martin searchingly. Martin inclined his head, slightly, and reached over to shut off the audiograph machine. "But you see what I'm faced with? This was no crime of passion for him, or he would have caved from the guilt long ago. No, this was planned, coordinated. He is hiding something, or else why prolong his suffering so?"

Martin hummed, low in his throat. "Quite true. Might we talk privately? I have a few theories."

Burrows glanced up at the interrogator, and waved him away. The man - who had been silent the whole time - took up some of his tools and left through a back door.

Martin watched him go, then glanced to Callista and Attano. "I'd prefer this be just between the two of us. Might we go to the anteroom?"

Burrows lifted a brow in surprise and turned to look at Callista. She felt sure she must look drawn and green with disgust, but he seemed impressed with what he saw.

"Of course. Briefly."

"Miss Curnow, please write down your impressions of the session?" Martin asked, and Callista nodded, wordlessly.

They left.

Slowly, Callista made herself turn to Attano. The man's head lolled, and when Callista stepped forward and crouched in front of him, he didn't acknowledge her with even a moan of pain. She grimaced. Outside the room, she could hear Burrows and Martin speaking, but couldn't make out the words.

"Mr. Attano," she murmured, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

The man jerked, hard enough to make his bonds creak and groan, and she fell back, eyes wide. Attano lifted his head, eyes blazing but unfocused. She wondered if he could even see her.

Slowly, she crept closer again. "We know what happened," she said, softly, voice cracking as her throat tightened with fear. "The Abbey knows what happened. Martin's cruelty is a- necessary ruse."

_I think_.

His eyes focused on her, and his lips - cracked, bloodied - pulled back in something more snarl than smile. His teeth were cracked, a few missing with only bloody sockets where they had been. He spat, and she looked down to see blood-stained sputum splattered across the front of her coat.

"They've- always- known-" he heaved.

"Martin is not Campbell. Campbell is dead, Mr. Attano. The Abbey is changed."

He laughed, and it was a horrible sound. It made her flesh crawl.

If Corvo told Burrows that Martin was against him- if he sought power and vengeance the only ways he could get it-

"Kill Burrows," he hissed. "And then we'll talk about- _changed_."

She relaxed, soothed by his bitterness. But Burrows' voice was growing louder; they were returning. She swallowed, thickly.

"We know about Daud," she said. "We know Burrows paid him. Trust us, Mr. Attano. _Please_."

The latch groaned.

Corvo only glared at her, his hands - half-broken - curling into swollen fists.

"And don't tell Burrows," she added, quickly, before standing up and moving away from Attano, folding her arms behind her back.

The walk through Coldridge was largely silent, and Callista fought to ignore the sounds of all the other prisoners. Her mouth seemed filled with blood, her hands stained with it, even though her skin and uniform were still impeccably clean.

When she climbed into the railcar, she poured herself a tall glass of whiskey before Martin even shut the door.

* * *

The stench of Coldridge still clung to her the next day as she entered the halls of Parliament. She could catch traces of it when she turned her head too quickly, or lingered too long in one spot. It was pervasive and insidious, and, as she'd scrubbed her shoes and wore an entirely fresh set of clothing, she was convinced it had more to do with guilt and horror than any physical spattering of refuse. Still, the image of Corvo's swollen, vengeful face wouldn't leave her, and once or twice she thought she saw him in the milling crowds.

Treavor Pendleton was somewhere in the masses streaming from the chambers, but he wasn't making himself known, if he'd recognize her at all. She would only have been able to pick him out from the crowd based on Martin's description, and she didn't trust strongly in that, so she made her way up towards his office. She was stopped twice, both by guards who weren't entirely sure what to make of the signed decree of her position and authority she had to bring out on both occasions, or of how to feel about a woman in what was clearly some variant of an Abbey uniform, but without the mask or a snarling hound by her feet.

There was a thought - her own hound. It might have been useful to clear her way. It certainly would have made her feel more legitimate. Away from Martin, and without rage to propel her steps, it was difficult not to be the same careful, quiet, appeasing woman she'd been raised to be for her own protection.

Eventually, though, she made it to Pendleton's office. It was next to the larger office shared by his brothers, who held a disproportionate number of the family votes. She'd asked Martin if she was to stop by there, as well, and he'd laughed in her face.

They were Burrows' men, through and through. No, it was the younger, treason-minded brother they wanted.

They'd had a short debate, then, with Callista questioning the wisdom of publicly approaching the man, and Martin being unable to answer her queries as to his outward loyalties and policies in any real depth, but she'd caved, in the end. It had only been a matter of Martin questioning if she was afraid.

And of course, she had been. She still was. But fear, he'd reminded her, was no reason not to do the work - and besides, he trusted her to be circumspect, alert, and responsive. If there was real danger, she was to get out. Simple as that.

The hound would have been a comfort. The ones at the Abbey were well-behaved, highly trained and viciously loyal to their handlers. If Havelock's hound had known to obey her and defend her, she could imagine emerging from the altercation at the pub, if not with less blood on her hands, then certainly with more confidence.

Pendleton's aide opened the door at her knock, and didn't show any of the wariness, confusion, or distaste she'd expected. Apparently, he'd been thoughtful enough to leave her name as a potential visitor. Lord Pendleton, the young man explained, would surely be there in just a few minutes.

Callista passed over the offered chair and went instead to stand by the window.

From there, she could see the glittering waters of the lower Wrenhaven, stretching out beneath the brilliant sunlight of the height of spring. If she craned her head, she could see Dunwall Tower, too. Coldridge was just out of sight. It was a good view, in keeping with the fine carpet and expensive woods and metals that made up the fixtures of the room. All its grandeur wasn't lost on her; despite spending hours in Martin's sumptuous office, and adjusting to her uncle's rooms (which were lavish compared to her old apartment), she was still the small, dun-dressed woman who had grown used to a two room, miniscule space, and who had grown up in comfort, if not security, outside of the cities.

She wondered if she would ever get used to it all. Probably; that seemed to be the way of things.

The aide had his own desk in the antechamber to the office, and she heard him shuffling papers, then speaking into an audiograph recorder. If she strained, she could make out the words. It was only simple records keeping, though, and she soon lost interest.

The door to the hall opened, and the whir of the audiograph ceased. The aide said something in a low tone, and Pendleton's high, nasal voice answered, "Thank you, Bartholomew. Give us some privacy, hm?"

He sounded relieved. Callista turned towards the antechamber as he strode into the room, smoothing out his camel frock coat. The door behind him closed, tight. She looked him over, marking his narrow, awkward frame, his too-wide forehead and too-large eyes, the faint rimming of them and his nostrils with red inflammation. This was not a healthy man. Overbred, and not nearly as vigorous as Martin or Havelock.

But he was quick witted. She could see it in the purse of his lips and the set of his jaw. There was something _hunted_ there, not so clearly broadcast as by the harried women in the streets, or the fugitives by the docks, and not so fresh as her uncle's own barely-concealed terror the last night she'd seen him - but it was there.

And it had honed him. Made him attentive, highly aware. He was able to take her in with a single sweeping gaze, before he turned to his sideboard.

"May I interest you in a drink, Miss Curnow?" he asked.

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, and watched as he poured himself a glass of deep red liquid. He had hesitated, just a moment, before lifting the decanter.

Good; her refusal was having the intended effect. This was not a simple social visit.

"I must say," he remarked, not looking at her, "that this may be the first time the Abbey has had a request of me. Should I feel honored or on guard?"

"I come on my own, so make of that what you will," she returned, moving away from the window and settling into the seat across from his desk with more ease than she'd felt in Timsh's office. She went over a list of mental notes, snatches of conversation with Martin mixed in with her own considerations. "We haven't met before, but I understand that we have a... military connection."

Pendleton set the decanter down with less grace than she suspected was normal, but when he turned to her and made his way to the desk (he didn't swagger, or saunter, and the confidence in the motion wasn't _entirely_ studied) he was in total control of himself once more.

"I hear you had a dangerous run-in down near the river recently," he said, and she glanced around, following his darting gaze. Was there a listener nearby?

"A shame, really. Business has dropped off, from what I understand. Too many people heard the gunshots, and with Blacky out of the listings..." Pendleton shrugged and sat down in his chair. "Still, I'm glad you're alright. What can I do for you, Miss Curnow?"

"I want to know what you and your friend know," she said. She glanced around the room. "If there's a better place for this conversation, though, a simple plan to meet would be appreciated."

"My visits to the pub go unremarked on, balanced as they are by my brothers' essential _habitation_ of- of the Golden Cat," Treavor said with a grimace. "But a representative of the Abbey's highest office surely looks less out of place here than down there. The room is secure, if that's what you're asking about." He sniffed, as if vaguely offended, then took a sip from the small, delicate glass he was holding.

"If you're coming here on your own, though," he added after a moment, "I'm not sure I'd like to tell you. Havelock stressed to you that we're more interested in an alliance with Martin? That isn't to say you don't share some of his authority, but with the... novelty of your position, and..."

Callista inclined her head. "I understand, my lord. Let me put you at ease - Martin knows that I'm here, and is interested in what you have to say, but he didn't _send_ me."

Treavor sat back, narrowing his bulging eyes. He set his glass down and thumbed at his nose, which was faintly red at the tip. The beginnings of a cold? Surely not plague, though Callista couldn't help sitting back a little further herself.

"He trusts your judgment a great deal, then?" Treavor asked, looking thoughtful. "I've never met the man, but from what Havelock said-"

"Do they know each other well, then? I only knew that they met once."

He visibly bristled at her interjection, eyes darting to her uniform, and took a moment to compose himself before responding. "They've had a few run-ins. Havelock has told me that he's exceedingly... _clever_. Perceptive. And clearly a man who becomes High Overseer less than a fortnight after his predecessor's death has some pull, which is always helpful." He toyed with his glass, long fingers twirling it around on a point of its base. "And you have not only influence, but his ear. Good. Well, then- this is what we know.

"Corvo Attano did not kill the late Empress, may her memory live on."

He watched her, closely, for her reaction.

"We suspected as much," she said at last. "We've found evidence linking the assassination to Daud."

Treavor snorted. "I hope you have better than stories. That name's an easy one to lay blame on."

"We do. But go on - if you have more?"

He shifted uneasily. "The whole thing always seemed off to me, you know. I barely knew Attano, but the man was devoted. A bit odd, to be sure - quiet, and definitely not from Gristol - but very skilled, and very loyal. And it's not as if that ship took him to Pandyssia. While months at sea can change a man, by all accounts the trip seemed nice enough. Not traumatic. Not... fractious."

"My uncle was there, and could have attested to that," she said, slowly.

"Well," he said, "we also talked to your uncle once. Maybe twice, you'd have to ask Havelock. According to the good captain, he had been asked to leave the Tower quite soon after arriving, and to take many of his men with him who were already stationed there. It was cast as a _go, the Empress is safe now with her Lord Protector, go get yourself a drink, boys_- but it had sat wrong with him."

Callista's lips pursed. "He never told me that."

"From what I understand, he was very drunk when he told Havelock. He carried a lot of guilt from that day. But he wasn't given any coin, so he couldn't prove bribery. Still, the order came from our esteemed Lord Regent. Makes you think, hm?"

Callista did her best not to roll her eyes. Pendleton was clearly reveling in telling the story, in revealing its intricacies to her. And the information _was_ useful. It explained the _how_ that Campbell's notes didn't touch on. Convince the guards who couldn't be bribed - because Campbell would have known her uncle couldn't be - to leave, bribe the ones who stayed for the sake of 'legitimacy' so that they'd never speak and would arrest Attano... She wondered if she could find some of those men. Question them.

They were likely all dead, though. Burrows was not a trusting man.

"So the Lord Regent arranged for the death of the Empress, and the kidnapping of the heir?" she asked at last.

"With the late High Overseer's help. He was there too, that day, and both he and Burrows made frequent trips together to Coldridge."

"Martin was invited on one yesterday. I've seen Attano. He's in... a sorry state. He refuses to confess."

Treavor nodded. "Which Burrows feels he needs before he can execute the man. With the plague picking up fervor, he's nervous about his legitimacy. He hardly needs to be; a surprising number of my peers are quite happy Jessamine is dead. Burrows provides more... advancement opportunities, in directions they're interested in."

Callista hummed. "But not you?"

"No, I'm committed to the health of the city, and the Empire, and to the legitimacy of the Kaldwin line. Burrows is a fool. A grasping, conniving fool."

"Do you know where the heir is?"

Pendleton stilled, then glanced away. "No. We suspect out of the city. Attano might know where, if Burrows is using resources of the crown that we don't know about. Our first goal is to rescue him from his captivity. The rest should follow. I assume he's quite motivated, and unbroken, if he hasn't confessed yet?"

"He is an angry man," she agreed, "and very wronged. We offered him our support yesterday. Whether he believes us is another matter."

Pendleton let out a stunned breath. "You- offered-"

"To let him know he has allies. Only in the Abbey, though. We made no mention of you, given our uncertainty as to your motivations and plans."

"We want the rightful Empress on the throne."

"And who would be her Regent?" Callista asked, rising to go to the window. Her skin crawled. The authority she wore like a mantle seemed immense, heavy, but also- thrilling.

A lord would have never listened to her speak treason before, and never would have hung on her every word.

"If... we find no others sympathetic to her cause, the thought was for Havelock to take Burrows' place. He would be able to shield her with the military."

"He still has pull, then?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. "Even with his discharge?"

"Enough. He could build it back up again."

"You put a lot of faith in a navy man," she remarked.

Treavor swallowed, smoothed his waistcoat. His hunted look was back. "Within reason, I assure you. Now- to your offer of alliance. With us, and with Attano. You have access to Coldridge that we do not. Your help in freeing Attano would be- most welcome."

"Should it be traced back to the High Overseer, his position would be in danger, Lord Pendleton. And should it be traced back to _me_, niece of Campbell's assassin..."

He squirmed, slightly. "But it's the most reasonable approach-"

"I'll bring it to him," she said. "And we will evaluate our options."

_We_.

She looked back to the window to hide her sudden flush. It was a strange thought, _we_, but she realized that she'd pictured them as a unit - perhaps of unequal parts at first, but a single thing all the same - since he had tied his red mark around her throat. As they settled into their new roles, they were only growing closer. She thought back to Timsh, and to Martin's delight with her initiative, his interest in her talents.

And now, caught up in a conspiracy, they were truly set apart, the only two in their class. Her lips curled, faintly.

Out in the antechamber, she heard voices, a few words of which were raised in volume. She turned from the window. Treavor was already rising from his seat. Then came frantic knocking, and the aide unlocking the door.

"Your brothers, my lord," the aide managed not to gasp, though he looked harried and frightened.

The door swung open in full and the elder Pendletons strode into the room. They moved in concert, like a pair of hunting dogs, one coming straight for Treavor, the other hanging back slightly, inspecting the room - and then her. His eyes narrowed.

"You are intruding on Abbey business, my lords," Callista said, every inch of her will bent to not bowing to them out of habit.

The one focused on Treavor snorted. "What, did they find your little cache of bone charms, baby brother?"

"I don't-" Treavor began.

But the other one interrupted with, "Don't be silly, Morgan. Our dear brother has clearly turned himself in. He always was a _guilty_ little creature." His eyes glinted, and remained fixed on her. "Women in the Abbey, though - my, times are changing. Campbell only played dress-up with his whores in private."

Her eyes narrowed and her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. The twins were cruel - that she had heard at length before, from acquaintances who knew sisters or friends who had gone to serve their household. They were also rich and, according to Martin, firmly allied with Burrows.

Lucky, then, that they hadn't arrived earlier, in time to hear muffled conspiracy through the door.

She dragged her gaze away from the unnamed twin and back to Treavor, fixing the most bored expression that she could manage on her features. She inclined her head to him - and only to him. His hunted look was at full mast, now, cornered as he was by his brothers.

"I'll pass your inquiry on, my lord," she said. "I am sure that we will be able to bring you guidance on your excellent theological question."

And she left.

In her former identity as a quiet governess, one of the elder Pendletons could have simply reached out and grabbed her, forced her to remain. She would have had no recourse, no authority, no protection.

But despite their mockery, neither moved to stop her. They were too uncertain of her real status.

They let her pass, and she managed not to begin shaking until she was out of Parliament and settled into her railcar once more.

* * *

"It's an interesting proposition," Martin said, squinting out at the finger of river that made its way past the rear yard of Holger. "I'll look into it."

Callista pressed her lips to a thin line, trying to find something interesting to look out on. The stretch of barracks and workshops was bleak, though, and she found herself unable to remain as impassive as she would have liked. "It's too dangerous," she said to his back.

Martin turned his head, glancing over his shoulder with a lifted brow. "Not too dangerous," he said. "Neither of us will do it ourselves. I'll send Windham. He'll appreciate the posting - Coldridge is near a particular street he likes to frequent on leave, if I recall."

"Windham is trustworthy enough?"

"Enough, yes," Martin said, turning back to his glimpses of the setting sun on the river. "I won't tell him the purpose, but there are many reasons for our fine institution to keep independent tabs on Attano. I'm sure Campbell did the same. He and Burrows couldn't have trusted one another with their lives."

She followed his hands as he fished his cigarette case from his jacket. They were quick, nimble hands, and she reflected for just a moment on the fact that she hadn't felt them on her in- what felt like ages.

Only days, she reminded herself, and it meant nothing. No, the closeness inherent in standing on a rooftop talking conspiracy - _that_ was what mattered.

When the cigarette was lit, smoke curling from its tip up from his hand, he shrugged and turned to her with his full charming smile. "Are you afraid again, Miss Curnow?"

"A little."

"No need to be. Windham has certain... secrets, that he knows I'm aware of. And that, should I reveal them, will ruin his credibility. I'd prefer not to, of course. He's a good man. But we have insurance."

Callista focused on an invisible speck of lint on her uniform sleeve, brushing at it. She didn't look up as Martin crossed to her, and startled when his fingertips caught below her chin, nudging her face towards his.

"How is your new home?" he asked, softly.

"... Well enough," she said. "Empty, though. Most of the furniture was broken or taken."

"I'll have some sent over. Food?"

"Tolerable. It's been several years since I've cooked for myself on any regular basis, but I'm managing."

He nodded, then let go of her and offered her the cigarette case. "We have yet to have a full celebration," he remarked as she took a finely rolled stick from the silver. When it was wedged between her lips, he struck a match and held it close to her. She bent her head and inhaled.

It had been about six months since she'd last indulged, though, and once the thing was lit she turned away to cough. He chuckled.

"I'm quite fine without the celebration," she said once she'd regained her composure. "There's hardly time for it, anyway. Tomorrow you have ten funerals alone, not to mention all the administrative tasks-"

"I'm considering putting a moratorium on funerals," he said.

She scowled. "The people won't like that."

"It's a waste of my time, Miss Curnow, and a waste of the Abbey's in general. Every day, tens of men die- maybe hundreds, soon. Not all of them are mourned, of course, but the proportion of victims who still have families, and families who can pay, are rising. Campbell used the flow of money for services to line his pockets, but while the gold is tempting, my time and focus is worth a bit more.

"Besides, as the deaths mount, order in the streets will continue to deteriorate. It's best if the Abbey attends to that. A preemptive strike."

Callista considered the lit end of her cigarette, smoke curling from her lips. "I suppose so. What is the latest theory on the origin and transmission of the disease?"

"That I've seen? There have been a few monographs published by various Academy members pointing out similar plague events in Serkonos, and they've tracked the origin to Pandyssia. I wouldn't wonder if the Pendleton ships had brought it over, but I don't exactly have access to their mining records."

"If the plague really is from Pandyssia, and they brought it," she mused, "then the Pendletons would be experiencing high losses. Are they?"

"Their money is dwindling, to be sure," he agreed.

"If they pose a threat to us, then, we have a way to take them out of power - don't we?"

Martin lifted a brow.

Callista flushed. "We make it known - perhaps by funding a few of the natural philosophers - that their ships brought over the plague rats, and public opinion turns against them. Burrows would have to act, even if only symbolically."

"Ah, but their ships are currently blocked from leaving from or returning to Dunwall. There's nothing that can be _done_ to them that would stop the plague. A good thought, though. And potentially useful. It just needs some refining." His smile was indulgent.

"The people won't care that it won't stop the plague. They'll want to see them burned. They'll want the Pendletons strung up," she said, firmly.

The indulgence in his smile faltered, and he blinked, rapidly, as if surprised that she would challenge his assessment. She lifted her chin slightly.

At last, he inclined his head. "Just so."

She turned away from him, walking to the edge of the roof. The spot was well-appointed for a roof, with strong railings and finely cast iron benches. It was an extended balcony of sorts from the top floor of the building, used for all those visitors that never came. It wasn't secure in any sense, but it was a welcome respite from the close, heavy confines of the office proper.

Leaning over the railing, she looked down at the side wall of the kennels.

"Would they be able to train one for me?" she asked.

"Hm?" Martin crossed slowly to the railing, joining her in peering down.

"A hound."

"Possibly. Usually, though, they remain with their handler their entire lives - and you hardly have time to train one from a pup yourself." He turned, leaning back against the railing and tilting his head back to let a jet of smoke from his nose. "As far as self-defense goes, I was more imagining a few hours of target practice for you. Getting you more comfortable with that pistol of yours. If there's a next time, I'd like you to hit a man's heart, not his shoulder."

Callista tapped ash down onto the street below. "Both would be better. But you're right, there's no time for training a hound."

"One could be trained to protect you, certainly, and you could learn the appropriate commands," Martin mused. "But it wouldn't be as much of a partnership as hounds and their Overseers usually are. It might decide to protect you in ways you don't like."

"Forget I asked."

"No, it's a valid proposal," he said. The afternoon sunlight lit his features in stark relief, gilding his dark, pomaded hair and contrasting sharply with the pale blue shadow of stubble on his jaw. Callista caught herself following the line of his neck down to his shoulders, then reached out to twitch his uniform more neatly into place.

He chuckled.

"Always so attentive, Miss Curnow," he murmured, his voice taking on a low note that made her shiver despite the spring warmth.

"You have that meeting with the street patrol captains in half an hour," she reminded him.

"And you have those letters to read and sort through," he responded, pushing away from the railing. "And your translation work. Have you made any progress?"

"I've hardly had the time to," she said.

"Make time, then," he said, simply, before snubbing out his cigarette.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Dinner was simple - grilled eel in a thick sauce with bread to sop up the last of it, and a single apple, accompanied by wine that had been a gift from Martin's cellars. It took under an hour to prepare it. But all the ingredients were fine and clean; the bread wasn't moldy, the eels weren't musky, and the apple was crisp and unblemished.

The wine, of course, was perfect.

She would never be able to trust - or house - servants to cook her meals for her, but the food in front of her was a far cry from what she'd eaten in her tiny apartment without a stove.

It had been five days since the trip to Coldridge, and she was close to finishing the passage on the Empress's murder and the heir's disappearance. She'd copied the text out onto loose pages, and those were spread out on the dining room table - another gift of the Abbey. She eyed them as she ate. She'd spent the last few days so busy she could barely sit down, assisting with every meeting Martin had, organizing his notes for sermons, and arranging his travel. Her nights had been filled with dreams of Attano's broken hands.

She'd put her foot down earlier that afternoon, and demanded a few extra hours to herself. Martin had agreed with surprising ease.

But _to herself_ meant little now. She had books on the sea to read, or she could go stroll by the docks, but both felt ashen and hollow. Work had beckoned. The apartment was now comfortably furnished again with the Abbey's old, unused furniture, but it wasn't hers. She kept to the table, nibbling on her bread, making quick notes on her copies of the relevant pages.

She worked until long after her food had gone cold, and she finished the bottle of wine without noticing. By the time she roused herself for bed, it was well past midnight. Her night off lay in laughable pieces behind her.

It didn't matter.

She knew where the heir was.

Callista was considering dragging on her uniform again and leaving immediately for the Abbey when somebody knocked on her door. She froze, picturing Watchmen standing at the door again, bellowing for her head. But there was only another, fainter knock.

It sounded familiar.

She retrieved her pistol from her room, then went to the door and crouched by the keyhole, trying to get a glimpse of whoever it was, but their bulk and the darkness beyond blotted out all but a few shreds of light. She stood, mastering her breathing. Havelock, perhaps? An old friend of her uncle's? An Overseer would have announced himself.

Her voice refused to work, and whoever it was refused to introduce themselves.

Finger caressing the hammer of her gun, she edged the door open. Martin stood on the other side, his hair dishevelled, his jacket torn. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were wild.

Callista swore and wrenched the door open, reaching for him with her free hand. He stumbled inside, avoiding her touch, and leaned heavily against the entryway wall. Callista set the gun aside on a nearby table, locked the door behind them, then hooked her arm beneath his shoulder.

He hissed in pain.

"What happened?" she asked, dragging him towards the main room. His steps were halting. A jacket - not from his uniform - hung around his shoulders, only one of his arms through the sleeve.

"Thugs," he gasped, and his voice sounded odd. Strange. Faintly accented. She frowned and sat him down on a chair, tugging his jacket from his shoulders.

He hissed as the fabric stuck to his skin. With a sucking sound, she pulled it free, exposing his blood-stained shirt and a ragged flap of skin, half-flayed from the flesh beneath.

"Outsider's eyes," she whispered, freezing.

He laughed, helplessly, trembling. She took a quick inventory of the rest of him. There was dirt ground into his skin, and his flesh was bruised and swollen in what seemed like a hundred places. But the flayed skin was the worst of it, and she quickly covered it with her hand, pressing on it to keep it in place, and tugged his shirt from his body.

"I went out," he gasped as she dragged him to his feet again, keeping pressure on his back. She led him to her small washroom, where she pressed a sewing kit into his arms, then turned him around. "I needed air, to think." The brogue she had picked up the edges of grew stronger as he formed sentences. "I didn't even see them coming, but- _fuck_!"

Callista had peeled her blood-soaked hand away from the wound and was beginning to wash the blood away, to see the damage more fully. The flap of skin was darker than the surrounding area, and after a few passes of a damp cloth, she could make out stark black lines.

A tattoo.

He jerked away at her next touch.

"I need you to stay still," she said. "Did they rob you?"

"Of course they fucking robbed me," he spat, chest and shoulders heaving. He flinched again as she ran water over the area, and uncurled his fingers from around the sewing kit only with great difficulty. She set it on the edge of the sink and opened it, reaching for needle and thread. She glanced around for an oil lamp to heat the needle in, but the nearest one was across the house.

She ran it under water. It would have to do.

"Did you have the notebook on you?" she asked, gaze flicking to the line of his jaw.

"No, thank every Spirit ever conjured up by man."

Pressing a red-stained cloth to his shoulder and awkwardly holding it there with the side of her arm, she quickly threaded a curved needle. "The Abbey has a better nurse than me, I'm sure-"

"You were closer," he said. "And I don't- I'd rather nobody saw me like this." His accent was thick, now, and his gaze darted about fast, unsteady.

She tried not to think about what it meant that he would come to her when he would go to nobody else.

"Exhale," she said, and when there was no air in his lungs for him to lose, she pierced the needle through the ragged edge of the flap of skin, and began tacking it down to the surrounding flesh.

He hissed in pain, then shouted, hands going to the edge of the sink. He sent her sewing kit clattering to the floor as he gripped the porcelain, heaving for breath. She pressed her elbow into his spine, bending him forward so she could get above the work, and for the next fifteen minutes, she focused only on closing the wound, her hand smoothing over the destroyed flesh, trying to keep it flush to the meat beneath.

Martin was weak and trembling by the time she was done.

She cleaned the wound quickly with another pass of the stained cloth. The tattoo was hard to make out beneath its patina of blood and the dark bruising from the pass of the knife, and she bit her lip against the questions rising up in her as she covered it with gauze.

"You're rather- well-stocked," Martin gasped out as he straightened up, the better for her to wrap his chest.

"It's habit, after everybody in my family began to die," she said, turning him to face her. She reached up and touched his swollen jaw, thumb brushing against the small cut at the corner of his mouth. "Should I call the Watch? Thugs assaulting the High Overseer-"

"I wasn't in uniform. They couldn't have known," he said, pulling away. He moved in halting, limping steps - and not all from the pain in his back.

She reached out and touched his ribs, lightly. He swore.

"How did you get away?"

"By slitting their throats, Miss Curnow. I'm quite capable of protecting myself," he growled. "I need- I need a drink. I need a drink, and a smoke."

"I can get you those. Come here," she said, taking his elbow. She made him lean on her as she steered him towards the sitting room.

The couch's upholstery would be ruined, but it hardly mattered.

She sat him down and went to the kitchen, pouring him the last of her uncle's whiskey and bringing it to him. She pressed the cup into his hands, along with a small cigarette case that she'd picked up earlier that evening, for when her nerves overwhelmed her.

He muttered a thank you, and knocked back the whiskey. She watched his throat bob.

"Your back," she said, when he'd finished sucking on his teeth and shuddering from the burn in his chest.

"You did a fine job of it, I'm sure," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smeared across his skin, and he hissed as he jarred the cut.

"What were they trying to remove? The tattoo? That's not a usual part of a mugging."

Martin said nothing.

"Tattooed skin doesn't fetch a high price on the market," she added. "And that didn't look like an Abbey mark."

"Leave it, Miss Curnow," he said.

"Is this going to happen again?" she asked.

"Given that it was pure luck that they found me? I doubt it. They're also all dead or wishing they were dead," he snapped.

His accent, his blood loss, and the whiskey made his words nearly unintelligible.

"And were the men who attacked you Morlish too, Martin?"

Martin didn't respond. Callista returned his gaze levelly, then rose from her seat and went to get one of her uncle's old shirts from his closet. By the time she returned, he'd struggled up from his seat and was staggering for the door.

She crossed quickly to him and took his elbow. He jerked and tried to round on her, but stumbled and sank to one knee. She sank with him, keeping him upright.

"Let's get you dressed. You're staying here tonight. There's no way you can make it safely back to the Abbey like this," she said, voice softer.

"They were Morlish," he whispered.

"Did you know them?" she asked, letting go of him only once he seemed steady. She helped him into the shirt as if he were a small child, all gangly limbs with no idea of where to place them.

"Once."

He leaned into her too much for her to button his shirt, and she gave up after a few seconds' awkward fumbling, instead bracing him as she helped him stand again. They staggered together to the couch, where she eased him down again, this time so he laid on his stomach. He let out a groan as his weight strained his ribs in a new direction.

She straightened up, watching his back closely for any sign of blood seeping through his bandage.

"You didn't answer me earlier - do you want me to submit a report to the City Watch? They'll be sure to take it seriously."

Martin's answer was a pained huff of breath.

"Unless there's something about this you don't want them prying into?"

"Very perceptive," he grunted.

Her lips tightened, grimly, and she sat down with her back against the couch. "I have good news, if it would help." Her voice sounded surprisingly even to her, and she realized, belatedly, that she was hardly shaking. Her terror didn't rule her - it hardly touched her. Instead, her focus was icy cold and unmoving.

"Well?" he asked, bringing her back to herself from the odd space she'd drifted to.

Her lips curled, faintly, and she turned her head to look him in the eye. "I know where Lady Kaldwin is," she said.

Martin went very still, even his labored breathing going steady for just a moment.

"She's at the Golden Cat. The Lords Pendleton - the twins - are responsible for her." Her voice had dropped from its former firmness to the same indulgent gentleness she used with sad or ill children, and she caught herself only moments before she settled her hand against his cheek. She placed it on the couch beside him, instead. "When the moment is right, we can move to retrieve her. You'll be a hero."

Martin's breathing began again with a harsh rattle, followed by a helpless cough. Her hand went to his lower back, and she helped roll him onto his good shoulder as he hacked and wheezed. Finally, as he stilled, he managed a weak, bitter smile for her.

"Good work, Miss Curnow," he murmured. "I could kiss you, if I weren't so bloody wrecked."

"Maybe in the morning," she returned, then flushed and stood, clearing her throat. "I'll go clean up the bathroom. You need to rest. Do you- feel safe enough to sleep?"

"With another whiskey in me? Sure."

She lifted the cup, with no intention of refilling it. "It'll make you bleed more. Besides, it's too good to waste as a sleeping aide, even for you."

"I'll buy you another bottle. Ten more bottles," he said, then laughed, then gasped in pain. "But fine, do what you will. And come up with some lie about where I was tonight."

"If we didn't have plans," she said, "I'd recommend the Cat - but the guards there will need to be questioned extensively, and it will become clear very quickly that you were somewhere else tonight. I'll give it some thought." She set the glass down near the sink, then went to her bedroom to retrieve an extra blanket.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, then came to a halt before it. She was largely undressed, in soft breeches for sleep and a short-sleeved undershirt, her waist unbound. Both garments were spattered with Martin's blood, and her hair was coming down from the bun on top of her head. She looked wild.

With a glance back towards the sitting room, she thought of herself on a whaling ship. She had been strong - she _was_ strong. Her limbs and heart didn't tremble. Men had assaulted her only tie to safety in the city, had flayed the skin from his body, but he was alive. In the morning, they would have to talk strategy. What his alibi would be, how they would time rescuing Lady Kaldwin and how they would handle Attano.

But the night had been won.

She returned to Martin and draped a blanket over his half-asleep form. He mumbled something, shifting minutely, his accent thick and rich. She couldn't make out the words for his exhaustion.

Briefly, she touched his hair. And then she doused the lights and went to her own room.

* * *

In the morning, she subjected him first thing to an inspection of his injuries. Her strength had been shaken by dream after helpless dream of times other family members had been sick, the vagaries of sleep twisting each memory until it was terrible and unrecognizable. That she remained in her bed through the night was a triumph alone, and she was glad to rise and put on her uniform.

Martin was still sleeping when she came out to rouse him. By the light streaming in the nearby window, she could take better inventory of his injuries. The swelling on his jaw, at least, had gone down, though there was a faint bruise there. Slowly, she peeled back the blanket. His bandage had soaked through in places and left brown spots on the shirt, but they were small. Crouching, she took up his hand, inspecting his knuckles. They were cracked and blood-caked, as she'd expected; she'd overlooked them the night before in favor of his more pressing injuries.

He groaned and stirred, and she let go of his hand and went to the kitchen, filling her kettle to the brim before putting it on the stove. She was still stoking the fire when Martin managed something closer to a word, and once the coal bed had been laid, she stood up, dusting off her hands.

He'd managed to sit up on his own - that was reassuring.

"Fuck," he spat, and grimaced. "Latrine?"

She pointed. "Do you need help getting up?"

"I trust you with my secrets, Miss Curnow. Not my bladder," he responded, and as she watched, he did manage to get to his feet.

But his weakness was clear; she went to him and looped her arm around his waist. "I'll take you as far as the door."

"Thank you," he drawled, his voice thick with bitterness. But his pained expression did soften, and with her help, he moved far more easily than she'd expected.

When he'd been left to his own devices, she went back to the kitchen and began frying up breakfast. He'd need the strength, and the delay before he had to make his way back to the office. It would probably be best, too, if she went ahead of him, retrieved a uniform, and brought it back for him.

She was still pondering when Martin made his slow, cursing way back to the kitchen.

His hair was wild, sticking up in several places, hanging down across his forehead, and his jaw was covered in rough stubble. She'd have to help him with that, too. A trip to the barber seemed preposterous. And there was the matter of all the blood and dirt still worked into his skin.

"I'm afraid I don't have your usual coffee," she said as she took up the now-whistling kettle and poured it into her chipped teapot, which had once been her aunt's most prized possession, back when tea was expensive and pottery still hand-made.

"Somehow, I think I'll manage," he said, smiling thinly.

"Once you eat, I'll have another look at your injuries. And I'll get you cleaned up. Do you want me to get a fresh uniform for you?"

"Yes."

"I'll leave you to eat, then," she said. "And I'll stop by the chemist's - the guards must have disposed of whatever antiseptic my uncle had. They disposed of quite a lot."

Martin nodded, wordlessly, and went to seat himself at the table. She poured his tea, then served up a plate of fried hagfish hash, settling it in front of him.

"Can I trust you not to go wandering?"

"If I didn't have _appearances_ to make, I'd be happy to stay here for the next week."

She quirked a brow, but didn't question him, instead disappearing into her bedroom to inventory her own appearance. Once she was satisfied that she looked only like her usual self, she grabbed up the materials she needed to take back to the office. She bid Martin farewell, and set about her errands.

They took just under an hour; her passage through the Abbey hallways was unimpeded, and though it was her first time in Martin's quarters, she had memorized the way to them, in case it was needed. The rooms were lavish, large, but he kept them in surprisingly spartan order. The sheets were fine and soft (or looked to be that way, at least), but the bed was carefully, tightly made, with only a single pillow on the great expanse of mattress. His walls were largely bare, missing the decorations so many others tended towards. Even his bookshelves were simple and small.

She retrieved his uniform and folded it into a small packet beneath her arm, then locked up the room and made her way out onto John Clavering, and from there to the chemist that Dr. Galvani supposedly got his experimental substances from. She bought a bottle of antiseptic and another packet of gauze, along with proper suture thread and needle, then took the whole lot back to her apartment.

Martin was attempting to pace, though his movements were halting, slow, and pained. Callista deposited her parcels on the couch, then went to set the kettle - still half-full - onto the stove to warm up again.

She emerged back into the sitting room to ask, "Can you get your shirt off without me?"

He responded by fumbling with the buttons and shrugging out of it with a hiss. Callista glanced at his chest, then away. She tugged at her gloves, then disappeared into her room, emerging only once she'd stripped off her uniform and dressed in working clothing, fabric she didn't mind ruining with a bit of water and soap.

She gathered up several pillows, and some cloths and items from the bathroom, then arranged them all on the floor of the kitchen. The flooring was smooth, with no rugs nearby, and easily cleaned. It was also a larger space than the bathroom.

"Sit," she said, indicating the nest she'd made of pillows.

He lowered himself with a groan, and she followed, quietly. She worked small scissors beneath his bandages and snipped them, then eased the crusted gauze from his skin. He hissed and twitched, but she got the wound uncovered.

It looked worse by daylight, but she wasn't sure if that was because it wasn't healing, or because she wasn't wine-addled. Her stitches, at least, were neat, and she was hesitant to remove them. Instead, she dipped a cloth in the bowl of hot water she'd poured, and passed it gently over the swollen flesh.

The tattoo was still impossible to make out.

When she'd wiped away the crusted blood, she soaked another cloth in antiseptic and pressed it to the wound, hoping to squeeze some droplets out in such a way that they'd pass beneath the flap of skin.

Afterwards, she bandaged him up again and began the slow work of cleaning off the rest of his flesh. When her hand passed over his shoulder to the front of his chest, though, he snatched up the cloth with his good arm and washed himself, scrubbing at the dirt crusted into his knuckles and under his nails. He tossed the cloth aside when he was done, panting.

"I'll take care of your hair and beard," she offered.

Martin turned, twisting at the waist despite the pain it caused.

"I've helped my uncle before," she assured him, gesturing to the badger-hair brush and the old, fine straight razor. "You're not the first man to be injured and have to go back to work the next day."

"Hair first. Then we'll see."

He had to hunch forward, instead of bending back, as she poured hot water over his head. His hair was short and fine, but thick, and it took some doing to scrub the old pommade from it, but the work was strangely soothing. It was also intimate, and she had to focus on the endless passing of her fingertips over his scalp to avoid the thought of how close her chest was to touching his back. She had to ignore, too, the way he exhaled as she worked. It was shaky and wondering and relieved.

When his hair was clean, he laid back with little protest, until he was stretched out on a bed of pillows with his head resting in her lap, separated from her legs by only a towel.

He looked up at her, chest rising and falling with strained, labored breaths.

"You'll understand, I'm not used to trusting anybody with a blade at my throat," he murmured.

"You came here last night for a reason," she said as she stretched to one side, swirling the brush in the pot of glycerin soap.

He didn't respond for a moment, then sighed. "I suppose you're right. ... Thank you, for taking me in."

"I could hardly do otherwise," she responded, with a faint smile.

"The men - they were associates of mine, when I was much younger."

She stilled.

"When I was a boy, really."

"Before you became an Overseer?"

"_Long_ before," he said, chuckling dryly. "It's a- long story, and one I'd rather not tell. It's enough to say that there's no love lost between us, but I have no idea why they'd be in Dunwall. In Gristol at all."

"You, perhaps?"

"Word of my _ascension_ can't have reached the far isles yet. No, they're here for something else. It's bad luck that they found me."

She hummed low in her throat as she straightened. She passed a hot, wet cloth over his jaw and throat, then began lathering his skin with quick, sliding passes of the brush, working light circles. It had been a few years since she'd done this, true, but there had been a period of time where Geoff's right arm had been broken, and she'd shaved his jaw every day for a month.

Then, of course, he'd been sitting in a chair, but Martin's back could hardly take the strain. She tried not to think about how they were positioned now.

Martin's eyes closed as she worked, until she set the brush down. Then they were open, wide, and fixed on her.

"I stropped it before bringing it out," she assured him. "It's as sharp as when my uncle used it."

He let out a shuddering breath.

"I suppose," he said after a moment, "that there would be worse ways to die."

"You can trust me, Martin," she said, left hand coming to rest lightly on his chin. She tilted his face to one side, and pulled the skin of his cheek taut. "But I'll leave your throat for last."

His lips quirked, faintly.

Steadying her grip on the razor, she touched the very edge of the blade to just below his cheek, working in small, quick pulls, the metal barely touching his skin. A fear she was familiar with flared inside her, and she counted every time she'd tended to Geoff without incident, and thought back to when he'd walked her through the basics using her arm as a dummy. As she grew used to the texture of Martin's beard and skin, she cleared larger areas in a pass, breaking every so often to rinse the blade.

Martin was tense beneath her, and she imagined she could hear the loud beating of his heart. She ignored it, focusing on her own breath, and the light scraping sound of the razor doing its work.

She tilted his head to clear his other cheek, then began the delicate work of shaving beneath his lip and under his nose. He helped her reflexively, sucking in his lips and pulling the skin taut. She was gentle near the corner of his mouth that had been cut, but he still tensed and nearly pulled away.

Callista murmured soothing sounds, and he settled again.

When his face was bare, she set the razor down and spent a good two minutes wiping off the remaining spots of hair and soap, before she tilted his head further back and leaned forward over him.

His breath puffed against her ribs, and she shivered.

She passed the brush over his throat again, making sure that each and every bit of skin was lathered, and then she cleaned the blade, almost obsessively. She was fiddling with her grip when Martin shifted.

"Get on with it," he hissed.

She flushed.

As much as she was slightly fearful of nicking him, he was terrified of her simply killing him. For every time she'd had a gun in his presence, he'd never seemed afraid that she would use it. But now, injured and vulnerable, shedding secrets like dead skin, he was baring his throat to her.

She licked at her lips, and touched the underside of his chin.

Pulling his flesh taut, she tried not to think of what the men from Morley had used to flay his skin away, nor how bright his blood would be if her blade caught and pressed too deep. She had every reason to preserve him; he had no reason to fear her.

She put the blade to his flesh just below his chin, and again worked in small strokes.

But the small strokes didn't reassure him. Instead, every initial touch of the blade to his skin seemed to make him jump, and her free hand left his chin to instead press on his chest. He panted, his breath fast and hot.

Again, she murmured soothing sounds.

Slowly, she returned to her work, this time making long passes up the column of his throat. Whenever her blade lifted, his throat bobbed. His hands worked against the floor, tapping uncertain, frantic rhythms. His breathing unsettled his body, and more than once she had to pause and draw her hands away, afraid of hurting him because of the spasms that rocked him.

Callista set the blade aside with perhaps three passes left to go. She straightened up, and looked down into his eyes.

"Martin," she murmured.

His gaze sharpened; it had been away somewhere else, afraid and distant. He cleared his throat, coughed. "Done?"

"Nearly, but I need you to be still."

He laughed, bitterly. "I'm doing my best."

"I understand," she said, smoothing a hand against his brow. "Just remember- you can trust me. You're safe here."

His gaze danced over her features, his jaw set. He swallowed again. There was disbelief there, in the crease of his brow, and worry, and fear, and a bit of anger.

"Three more passes," she said, "and then you can get up."

He was still for a long moment; then, finally, he nodded. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath, then exhaled, closing his eyes.

She bent back to her work.

The last three passes were quick, clean, and almost reverential in their perfection. His skin was unblemished as she cleared the hair and lather away. In her lap lay the head of the Abbey, clean and put back together again by her hands.

She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, and picked up the last of the hot, wet cloths, draping it over his jaw and throat.

Martin groaned appreciatively.

"All done," she murmured. "How's your back?"

"Horrible. But tolerable." His eyes remained closed. Callista found it nearly impossible to resist the impulse to stroke his hair, or to bend down and press her lips to his temple, but she did. Her heart was beating fast and high, lodged in her throat, as she stared down at her hands and the discarded razor.

He had _trusted_ her.

In the moment, as it had been last night, she hadn't feared. She had simply done what was necessary. It was adaptive, and good, and right. But now that the moment had passed, his fast pulse seemed to bleed into hers.

She cleared her throat. "When you're ready to sit up, I have pomade. For your hair."

"You take exceptionally good care of me," Martin murmured, reaching up to tug the hot cloth down. He opened his eyes and quirked a brow. Just a few seconds of quiet seemed to have restored his armor. "Be careful, or I might start asking you to comb my hair for me _every_ morning."

"And fetch your uniform?"

"I might as well leave the washing and starching to you, too."

Callista looked away. "Oh, I don't know. I've never been good at washing. Besides, then when would I find time to drink your wine and decipher your codes?"

He snorted. His weight in her lap shifted, and she looked back to him, slipping her hand beneath his good shoulder to help him sit up. He swore as he moved, but eventually managed to right himself. His bandages were still in place, and still surprisingly clean. It felt like a good sign.

Her hands trailed lightly down his spine before she made herself pull away and reach for the comb and pomade.

Martin responded much differently to her touch this time. Instead of tensing or flinching, he sighed, low in his throat, and let his eyes close to near slits as she combed the wax through his hair, slicking it back from his temples. The whole thing was sensual, and it made her fingertips prickle.

He'd been approving, but largely distant, since the night before his installation. But whatever was happening now didn't look like a loosening of his self-control. It looked indulgent, and highly aware.

She smoothed his hair out, then set down the comb and resealed the pomade jar. As she stood up, her knees protested. She bent to gather up each item that needed to be returned to the bathroom.

Martin's hand on her wrist stopped her.

He looked up at her, considering, then offered his most charming smile. "Well done, Miss Curnow. Thank you."

She opened her mouth to advise him to look in a mirror, first, before complimenting her, but stopped as she looked him over. He looked utterly composed. His jaw was clean and well-groomed, his hair set in order, the cut on his lip barely visible. She could see pain in the way he held his shoulders, but he was already beginning to master it; in his uniform, it would be barely visible.

"I believe," he murmured, "that last night we agreed on a kiss for your services?"

"Not necessary," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"And if I insist?" he asked, voice dropping to a purr. He leaned closer.

"It would be better," she said, swallowing around the hammering lump in her throat, "if we didn't add any weight to the rumors of our- relationship."

"They'll talk no matter what," he responded, easily, but let go of her wrist without hesitation. Reaching out, he steadied a hand on a nearby cabinet, and levered himself up. Callista found herself looking at his waist, and stood quickly. She found him appraising her, lips pursed in thought.

She left him and went about setting her bathroom back to rights.

It was as if she could hear his thoughts; she'd let him bend her over his desk, cut off her breath, spank her until her ass was sore and red- but she wouldn't accept a kiss? But a kiss felt intimate in an entirely new way. His control she could accept, but even though she knew, without a doubt, that it excited her - and that it excited _him_ - they hadn't crossed over into their other, more usual desires.

That he was offering was- unsettling. Frightening. Exhilarating.

By the time she returned, changed into her uniform and put back together once more, he'd gotten himself into his undershirt, and changed his trousers. He sat heaving for breath on the couch. She motioned for him to stand up, and helped him into his scarlet jacket. As she did up the toggles and settled his harness onto him, she was vividly aware of the smell of the shaving soap still clinging to his skin.

Luckily, it was her uncle's; the memories the scent brought with it helped keep her grounded.

But it was still hard to step away once she'd handed him his gloves.

"Lady Kaldwin," she stammered, in an attempt to build up a professional wall between them again. It should have been easier, now that he was dressed and appeared, largely, to be unhurt. "When will we move to get her?"

"Soon," he said. "Preferably when the Lords Pendleton are caught up in parliament. They do still go, don't they?"

"They were there the other day, yes. But why not catch them with her there?"

"I doubt they spend much time with the girl," he said, wriggling his fingers in the leather. "There are other, more enticing, ways to spend their time there, and it allows them some deniability. I wouldn't be able to accuse them of much in the moment, and they'd go first thing to Burrows. No, we'll strike when they're away. When's the next session?"

"There's one this morning, but it's likely already wrapped up," she said, grimacing. "The next isn't for two days."

"Then in two days, we move. Get me exact times, and, if you can, get in contact with the youngest Pendleton and see if he can't ensure his brothers' distraction."

"And Attano?"

"With Lady Kaldwin, we may be able to prove that Attano is innocent - but I'll keep Windham stationed all the same. He's looking for openings, though he doesn't entirely know that." Martin's smile turned wicked for just a moment. Then he frowned. "What do I have on my schedule today?"

She thought through it, quickly. "Meetings starting at noon. Before that, you were going to sit and talk with Overseer Hume about a project of his. Damn- I forgot to tell him it would be delayed."

"He'll live," Martin said. "First meeting is with-?"

"Timsh," she said, grimacing. "He's finally marshalled his objections, I should think."

"Let him come. Do you want to be there?"

Callista considered, glancing around the rooms. "No," she said. "Do you need the papers for the apartment?"

"They'd be helpful. Will you give them to me?"

She looked back to him to find him watching her with a solemn solicitude. He understood the weight of what he was asking. That alone made her smile, faintly, and pull the papers from the inside pocket of her jacket, handing them over. "Don't lose them," she said.

"What, and doom you to a life of living close at hand? Really, Miss Curnow - while I appreciate the job you did on my jaw, I intend to take that duty over once more, as soon as I can move my arm properly."

Callista canted her head. "And until then...?"

"Until then," he said, shrugging (which was followed by a grimace), "I'd appreciate it if you came early to the office each day. I'd like to hide my injury from- as many people as possible."

"As long as you don't take fever, you should be fine," she said, smiling faintly.

The idea of preparing him each morning made her stomach clench and flutter. She was just considering if she should object when outside the broadcast system whirred to life.

"Citizens of Dunwall: The traitorous murderer of our beloved Empress, Corvo Attano, will be executed at noon on this, the seventeenth day of the Month of Nets. Accordingly, all districts within two miles of Coldridge Prison are under mandatory martial law. I repeat, Citizens of Dunwall-"

"_Shit_," Martin breathed.

Callista didn't move.

"_Shit_!" he snarled, pulling away from her and moving to the door.

Callista followed, slowly at first, then at a jog to keep up. She barely had time to lock the door, and she raced down the steps after him. "Burrows didn't mention-"

"No, he must have heard something that spooked him. _Fucking_- if Windham let something slip-"

"But you were careful to tell him only what he needed to know!" she said, falling into step at his side as they passed fast over the cobbled streets and towards the railcar line that led to Coldridge.

"The only other person who I breathed _word_ about this to was you. Would you like to present another head for the chopping block, Miss Curnow?" Martin growled, and glanced back at her at last, his eyes alight with a feral, violent glow.

She swallowed, thickly.

"We might not be able to get through the checkpoints," she offered, softly.

"I'm the fucking High Overseer - if I can't get through _checkpoints_, what's the point?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

They crossed the great bridge to Coldridge on foot. The guards hadn't let the railcar come any closer, and Martin's pace, which began as a stately, heavy walk, changed to a near run when he realized that no messages were being sent ahead of them, no guards alerted, no effort made to slow or halt the execution until their arrival.

Callista checked the pocket watch tucked into her jacket.

It was nearly noon.

Gulls were screaming above them, but Coldridge itself was silent, hulking, looming above the rocks and water beneath it. The Regent's banners flapped and boomed against the side of the building as the wind picked up in sharp gusts, and she bent forward against it as they crossed the drawbridge. They reached the other side of the bridge just as a call went up and the great winches went to work, separating Coldridge from the rest of the city.

She watched the tension crawl up the side of Martin's jaw. They had no way out, now, and she glanced back at the raising metal of the bridge. She felt alone, exposed, and she edged closer to Martin before she could stop herself.

"The Lord Regent is waiting for you," a man in the brilliant red livery of the army said, crossing the brief space of yard between the end of the bridge and the main door. "In the viewing box above the execution yard."

"Of course," Martin said, holding back the growl she knew was in him. He moved stiffly to follow the soldier, and Callista remained at his heels.

The viewing box, such as it was, was a simple platform with a waist-high wall around it. It was accessible from both ends by flights of stairs, and it was open to the elements. She felt less safe on it than she imagined she would have felt down below. Burrows stood by the low wall, hands clasped behind his back, accompanied by (from his uniform) a general, and a few other high-ranking officials.

"The High Overseer," their escort announced. Burrows turned his head.

His smile was thin. "I see you finally received my invitation, High Overseer. I was beginning to worry."

"We had other matters to attend to- I apologize for my tardiness."

"My messenger said he didn't think you were in residence at Holger this morning."

Martin shrugged, this time able to hide his grimace. "I was taking a tour of some of the lower districts," he said. "Unannounced, you understand, and unnoticed. It seemed prudent to get a first hand look at the state of things."

"That's very dangerous these days, High Overseer. I recommend you take a few of your fellows with you, just in case something untoward happens."

Martin's eyes narrowed slightly, and Callista inspected Burrows. He seemed easy. Confident. Not panicked at all.

_Something untoward_. Was he offering a polite suggestion, or did he know what had happened the night before? Her stomach twisted, thinking of the state of Martin's back. Any earlier consideration of pushing him to seek a proper doctor faded.

Burrows would find out for sure, then.

There was shouting from the yard below, and all attention turned back to it. The yard was brilliantly illuminated with floodlights, and she saw in perfect detail as Corvo Attano was dragged before them, manacled and beaten. His hair, though, was neatly pulled back, and his jaw had been shaved. The illusion of dignity was shattered by his swollen cheek and blackened eyes. He fought like a caged, frightened beast.

They kicked him to his knees in the center of the platform, and three guards remained by him, holding the bars that were connected to his throat and his bound wrists and ankles. With a few quick pulls or pushes of those bars, they could easily unsteady him, or stretch him between the two of them.

He was helpless.

Burrows waved his cohort back - except for Martin, whom he beckoned forward with a small motion of his hand. Martin's upper lip curled for just a breath, and then he had his smile in place and moved to stand beside the Regent.

Callista clasped her hands tightly and hoped that he had a trick up his sleeve left. Perhaps it hadn't been Windham who let slip the plan at all - perhaps it had been Havelock, or Pendleton. Perhaps they'd set something in motion. Perhaps Havelock had his navy men ready to take the prison.

But she'd seen no ships, not even out on the horizon.

"Corvo Attano," Burrows said, and his voice boomed unnaturally out across the yard. She shifted and caught sight of the microphone bolted to the inside of the wall. "I will give you one last chance to confess to your crimes against the Empire and against the Empress you were sworn and raised to protect. Should you confess, your death will be merciful - and we will be able to set this Empire to rights again. Cast aside your selfishness, your shame."

Attano lifted his chin defiantly, glaring up at the box. His gaze came to rest on Martin.

Martin's hands curled around the edge of the wall, and he leaned forward.

"I do not condemn you for your lying tongue, Corvo Attano," he called, his voice amplified only by his lungs. "But I reflect to you your errant mind. Two contrary thoughts cannot abide in the same mind, and it is that contradiction within you that, I have no doubt, led you to murder, and now to heretical, pointless suffering. Confess what happened that day, and your mind will be at ease. You will eject the heretical, and be at peace in your last moments."

Attano's eyes seemed filled with fire, even from a distance.

And then he spoke.

"On that day, I attempted to protect Jessamine from assassins who appeared from nothingness. _That_ is who you should be pursuing, Overseer. They came from nothing, and took Em- the heir, and when they had done their deeds, the Lord Regent came to me and told me I had killed the Empress. But where did the girl go? I was there the whole-"

The bar attached to his collar was hauled back, and his speech was cut off. His back was arched, and Burrows watched on, face red with anger. "Heresy," he spat. "You had your accomplices. Captain Curnow was there with you that day, and there might have been others. I know what I saw; the whole Empire knows."

Attano couldn't respond, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Burrows leaned farther out of the box. "If you will continue on in your fractious, treasonous rantings, if you refuse to admit the truth of your crimes, then there can be no forgiveness, no salvation. If you have anything left in you that is good, you will tell us where the Lady Emily is!"

The guard loosened his hold on the bar. Corvo gasped, trembling and spasming until the bar attached to his wrists was pulled back, and he was allowed to straighten, to hunch forward.

"I don't _know_," he swore.

"Was it Captain Curnow who took her?" Burrows pressed.

Callista held her breath. It would be easy for Corvo to say yes, to blame her uncle, and for Burrows to turn on her. She would be tortured, as Corvo had been, until she broke and 'confessed' to where the heir was being kept, until she admitted her guilt. She thought of the Golden Cat and the little girl who was trapped there, and her knees grew weak.

But Corvo's eyes passed blindly over her.

He'd never heard her name.

"No," Corvo said at last. "Because you ordered him away from the Tower, just like you ordered-"

The bar jerked again, and Corvo sputtered.

"You've run out of chances, Attano," Burrows said, nostrils flared, lips pressed to a thin line. "I have been more generous with you than I have had any right to be with anybody. But this ends today.

"For your crimes against the Empire, you are sentenced to death."

Corvo let out a strangled howl as the two-man firing squad lifted their rifles and the three guards moved to either side of him, pulling their bars and presenting his breast to his executioners.

"Ready!"

Callista glanced around one last, desperate time, hoping to see something else, somebody else. They'd been so close-

"Aim!"

They'd been so close and Callista's heart thundered in her chest, unbelieving, unsure of how they could have lost-

"Fire!"

The report of the twin shots boomed out across the yard, picked up and amplified by Burrows' microphone, and Attano's body jerked with the impact. There was a brief silence as the executioners chambered new rounds, and then the crack of their guns as they fired once more. They emptied ten shots total into Attano, but he was still long before then.

The yard fell silent.

The army general was the first to speak, clearing his throat. "Well. That was certainly- bracing. Those accusations of his-"

"Are the rantings of a depraved mind," Martin said, smoothly. "It's been my suspicion since meeting the man that something on his diplomatic trip broke his psyche; it turned his loyalty to his charges into something much darker. I've see it happen before. Once, a mother drowned her three children so as to save them from the Outsider's influence - because if they were dead, they couldn't be led astray." He shook his head. "Tragic, but not unexpected, given the nature of the job."

"General Turnbull," Burrows said, turning at last from the sight of Corvo's crumpled body, "may I introduce High Overseer Teague Martin. He's a wickedly sharp mind - sharper than Campbell, I suspect."

"A pleasure to meet you," Turnbull said. He humphed deep in his chest. "And the woman?"

"My assistant," Martin said, beckoning her forward. Callista responded leadenly. "Miss Curnow. After she denounced her uncle and gave us insight into his possible whereabouts, I sought leave to hire her on as my aide."

Callista bowed shallowly. That seemed to satisfy Turnbull and the other assembled officials who were looking on.

"It's a shame we couldn't get a confession," one of the officials said, as she glanced back to where they were wrapping up Attano's body. "It would have been helpful for public relations. Not to mention knowing where Lady Emily might be. I do worry for her, poor girl."

"We'll find her," Burrows said. "He's let certain things slip in our interviews. I'm working with a few members of the military," he said, with a nod to Turnbull, "to check in the most likely areas."

"Glad to hear it," Martin said. "As for the lack of confession - the only people who know he didn't confess are here right now. For the good of the city-"

"The _Empire_," corrected Burrows.

"For the good of the Empire," Martin said, nodding, "we can always tell a little white lie."

The woman official who'd spoken up laughed. "And what of Strictures, High Overseer?"

"A smart man knows when to bend the rules a little. I'm willing to take the risk to the safety of my mind, if you all are. Surely you have enough self-control that you have nothing to fear?" His smile was feline, pleased. "But we don't need to decide now. My schedule is clear for the next hour or so. Would anybody be interested in whiskey and cigars?"

* * *

Callista left behind the merry, treacherous group once they were all settled in one of the sitting rooms of Dunwall Tower, making her way down to the railcar that would take her back to the office. A thousand thoughts danced in her mind, of things to do and people to speak with, potential leaks to check, and through it all, Corvo's motionless body continued to float to the surface like the bloated corpse it would soon be.

He was, she'd learned, being dumped in Rudshore, with all the other plague victims - part of a new initiative to reduce the strain on the city's crematoria furnaces.

She was halfway across the plaza to the railcar when she caught sight of Treavor Pendleton lingering by the car's doors. Her pace slowed. She approached warily.

He was fiddling with a half-burned cigarette, and only noticed her when she came to a stop a few feet away.

"Ah, Miss Curnow," he said, tapping off a long post of ash. "I was- hoping to find you here. Might I give you a ride back to Holger?"

"Is this your personal car, Lord Pendleton?" she asked, glancing around for the guards stationed nearby. There were quite a few; at least one had to be listening in.

"It is. I had originally come hoping to see the Lord Regent - to congratulate him on extracting Attano's confession - but-"

"The confession hasn't been broadcast yet," she said, eyes narrowing.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I assumed that Attano wouldn't have been executed had he not confessed."

Callista considered him. "The Lord Regent is tied up for the next few hours, to my understanding."

"Mine as well. I'm afraid I have other appointments, and can't wait it out. But Holger is on my way. May I?" He tapped his knuckles on the door, and it opened with a hydraulic hiss.

Inside, everything was lavish - more lavish than even Martin's private car. Its plush seats and finely decorated metal made her deeply uncomfortable.

But she needed to know if Havelock's small conspiracy had been involved in today's utter failure.

"Thank you, your offer is very kind," she said, and stepped into the car.

Pendleton followed, then lifted the metal panel that separated passengers from driver. "The pub, if you would." He let it fall shut

Callista frowned, and reached to catch Treavor's wrist. He jumped at her touch, and stared down at her hand, stunned that she would not only touch him, but _grab_ him. Then he said, softly, "I thought you might be able to use a drink, Miss Curnow." His eyes danced over her face, and he even bit his lip, faintly.

Ah.

At least she'd be able to get Havelock's read on things, too.

"... It would be appreciated, but the guards who overhead..."

Treavor lifted the panel again. "By way of Holger."

"Yes, m'lord," came the response.

Treavor shut and locked the panel, then eased away from Callista. She settled back into the opposite seat, back rigid. "Nasty business," Pendleton said at last. "The first we heard of it was when the announcement went out."

Callista nodded. "As did we."

He wrinkled his nose as the car jolted into motion. "That's less reassuring than I had hoped for."

There was a chance, of course, that there was a letter sitting on Martin's office desk summoning them to the execution that she'd missed in the rush of the morning, but she made the decision then and there that Pendleton didn't need to know.

"Burrows' circle is widening," she said instead. "General Turnbull was at the execution, as were several other officials. I didn't recognize them, though."

"Describe them?"

She did, and he named each one; chancellor of the exchequer, one of the formal representatives of the large slaughterhouses, and the Lady Lydia Boyle.

"My uncle mentioned that name before."

"Unsurprising. The Boyles own the second largest set of mines of anybody in the city. I'm very familiar with them," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. He was failing, though.

_Why_?

"No," she said, "no, he wasn't talking about wealth. Something about them being responsible for a schism in the upper levels of the Watch. Do they channel money that way?"

"... Yes, I think I heard something of that recently," he said, drumming his fingers on the side console. "And it would explain Lydia's presence, though really I would have thought _Waverly_ would have gone. Then again..."

She quirked a brow.

He sighed and fished out a glass and a decanter of brandy. He didn't ask her if she'd like a drink this time, only pouring enough for himself. "One of the Boyles - I've never been sure which one - has been rumored to be sleeping with Burrows. I always assumed Esma, but Lydia... I suppose it's possible."

"But not Waverly?" she asked, setting up a small chart in her head.

"Of course not," he said, snorting. "She likes power, but she likes control more. Not to mention the fact that she and Burrows are both so paranoid that they'd assume the other was trying to poison them. No, definitely not Waverly." His voice shook and grew shrill.

She noted it for later.

There were no windows to watch their progression through the city, but the car did slow down at several points - no doubt hitting checkpoints. She frowned at Pendleton, who was scowling into his brandy between gulps.

"It might soon be safer to visit the pub by river," she said. "So there aren't records of your car going there. It's a little below your level, Pendleton. People will notice."

He humphed. "There's been an uptick of river piracy too, you know. I'd prefer not to have my throat slit over open water."

"Then perhaps find a different place to meet. I'd hate for your cowardice to compromise our privacy."

He flushed, and knocked back the rest of the brandy, then curtly put away the whole assembly. "Watch your tongue, Miss Curnow. We may all have the same goals, but-"

The car rattled to a halt, and Callista opened the door and stepped out before he could collect himself.

There was bad weather rolling in, and the pub would get some of the worst of it, on the banks of the Wrenhaven like it was. She walked down the cobblestone streets, shrugging her arms closer around her, and tried not to think about rain sheeting down on the transport cars full of corpses, or of Martin slipping on rain-slicked steps and revealing his injury to the wolves he dined with. She hurried to the entrance to the pub, Pendleton behind her muttering to himself.

"Your driver," she said as they reached the door. "Does he suspect?"

"He's loyal," Pendleton returned, knocking on the door in a precise sequence. "He's my man and mine only. Name is Higgins."

The door swung open, and Callista quickly stepped into the warm, golden interior. There were a few people tucked in booths or at the bar, but nobody looked up as they crossed into a hallway and mounted the steps up towards the room she'd stayed in. They bypassed that door and instead went to the reinforced metal one at the end of the hall, which hung ajar.

Pendleton preceded her, knocking in a quick, fluttery staccato rap before striding in with a return of his earlier confidence. Callista followed. Havelock was sitting at a desk, looking at a large ledger book. He had small reading glasses balanced on his nose, and he looked up with a large, full-bodied sigh. He put down his pen and spread his hands out on his thighs, sitting back.

"He's dead, then?"

"And dumped in Rudshore," Callista confirmed, grimacing. "We didn't know it was happening either. There was no hint."

"Something must have spooked him." Havelock tapped a finger against his knee. "Did you make a move? Based on your conversation with Pendleton?"

Callista closed the door behind her. "Yes. We stationed an Overseer we know to be wholly loyal to us in Coldridge - but we didn't tell him any details."

"An update would have been nice," Havelock growled, then rose from his chair, which seemed too small for his hulking frame, and went to pour himself a cup of-

Tea.

She hadn't expected that. Her unease increased. He clearly intended to be fully alert for the meeting. Was he armed?

"We wanted to better understand the situation - on our own terms," she said. "Overseers are usually posted in Coldridge. We just rotated who was on duty."

"Five to one says Burrows had all the Overseers already there paid off," Havelock said.

"Yes, the addition of a new element - especially if it's the first rotation of staff since Martin got made High Overseer - probably made him panic," Pendleton drawled. He had his voice under control once more, she noticed.

Callista looked between the two men. "We didn't think he was so easily spooked."

"The man is a paranoid wreck, and always has been. If he hadn't gotten so bloody powerful as a young man, he would have torn himself to pieces by now," Havelock grunted, stirring sugar into his cup and then sipping loudly.

"Yes, you would have done much better to check with us. _I_ have far more experience with him than anybody else in our conspiracy."

_Our conspiracy_. Oh, Martin wouldn't like that. His advice would be to cut them loose, she was sure. They could handle the next step on their own. In fact, it would be safer all around.

She turned for the door.

"Miss Curnow," Havelock said, and she glanced back. His expression had softened somewhat, and he'd removed his glasses. "I forgot to- say that I'm glad you're in one piece. After the Abbey took you-"

"It was a formality. I needed to be evaluated before the Oracles could lend their support to Martin's candidacy."

"Your position is a dangerous one."

"No more so than yours," she said, turning. "I've... been able to reclaim my uncle's home, using the clout I now apparently have. I'm doing as you suggested - exercising the extent of my power."

He nodded, satisfied.

"Miss Curnow- did Attano actually confess?" Treavor asked, from where he'd taken up station by a window. Rain was beginning to spot against the glass. Soon it would be pelting down.

She chewed at her lip, then took the seat Havelock offered her. "No," she said, "he didn't. Quite the opposite. I was worried Burrows might have most of us in attendance silenced. He had the drawbridge up the prison up, and Attano's rantings... it would be difficult to pay off everybody who heard."

Havelock scowled. "But he didn't."

"No. He seemed... angry at Attano, but was pleasant with the rest. They must have already suspected."

"Or they bought Burrows' explanation."

"Martin's explanation," she corrected. "He wove a convincing story about Attano being delusional. They lapped it up."

"Smart move, on Martin's part," Pendleton chimed in. "Very smart. Burrows is obviously spooked by him, so while we figure out where Burrows has hidden the heir, Martin needs to gain his trust and slow his agenda."

Havelock nodded, thoughtfully. "If he's killed Attano, he'll reveal the heir soon. There's no reason not to, and the longer he keeps her in hiding, the greater the chance of somebody seeing her."

"Or of her catching the plague," Pendleton added.

"We're following leads," Callista said.

_We're preparing a raid_. It didn't feel safe to let them know how close Martin was to succeeding. After, they might still have use of Pendleton and Havelock, and with their position strengthened, it would be less risky. They would be angry at her deception, of course.

But Martin had made that singular request. They would work around it. She cleared her throat. "Lord Pendleton?"

"Treavor," Havelock interrupted. "We're all equals here."

Treavor waved a dismissive hand.

"Of course. Treavor- is there any way for you to ensure your brothers will be at Parliamentary meetings the next few days?"

He frowned. "I suppose so. Why?"

She folded her hands primly in her lap. "Martin suspects they're working closely with Burrows," she said, thinking as she spoke. "We can't find evidence of where they meet outside of their regular duties, but if you could listen in on their interactions at Parliament, we might gain some insight into who is paying off whom, or what their specific duties are."

Treavor grimaced. "I suppose you haven't heard of how they're running the family name into the ground, then?"

Callista frowned. "No, I hadn't."

"He's assuredly paying them. I'll keep an ear out for you, Miss Curnow."

"Thank you."

"And in return," Havelock said, looming over her, "I would appreciate more regular reports. And a meeting with Martin myself."

"I'll see what I can arrange, Admiral," she said. "The meeting may be easiest to arrange. I'm... hesitant to set up channels of contact, in case they're found out. We don't have much reason to be in this part of town, nor you in ours. Once, we can excuse. Twice, or ten times..."

He waved a hand. "I understand."

She rose from her seat. "... Do you have much contact with the gangs in this area?"

He shook his head. "I stay out of the mess. They like my booze and dog fights, and they don't bring their wars into these streets. Why?"

"No reason - we simply don't have ears out here," she said, offering a small smile. "And how is Blacky doing? The hound?"

He shrugged. "Won't fight again, at least not in the ranks he used to. Once he's healed up a bit more I'm going to see if he takes to life in the house. If not, he'll have to be put down."

"I am sorry," she said. "I understand that without him, the pub has been-"

"Has been doing _fine_," he said, shooting a glare at Pendleton. "May I escort you out, Miss Curnow?"

She nodded, and let him lead her into the hall. He walked her down to the back entrance. When they were by the door, he put his hand on the knob. She waited for the threat.

Instead, he only asked, "Have you heard from your uncle?"

She shook her head.

"A shame. I hope he's safe."

"Thank you," she said, smiling unevenly. "I... haven't given him much thought as of late. It's easier not to."

"I'm familiar with that approach," he said. "Maybe, if we bring down Burrows, we can find a way to pardon him. Bring him home, safe and sound. I could use a man like him in the Watch - I think we all could."

_Ah_. There it was. He was trying to give her a personal investment in his scheme. She nodded, and thanked him, and smiled with what she hoped looked like tears in her eyes.

And then she left his pub, found a public car, and took it back to Holger, wringing her hands.

It was a nice thought.

But it was small, in comparison with what they had left to do.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Martin swore, loudly, as she pulled the dressing from his wound. This was the third time they'd repeated this ritual now, and though the wound seemed to be healing, he had managed to jar it several times between each bandage change, leaving fresh blood and a small spattering of pus to stick the cotton to his flesh.

The spots closest to the unbroken hinge of skin were healing, though, and as she wiped at his shoulder blade with a fresh, hot, antiseptic-soaked cloth, she found she could make out a few more distinct lines of his tattoo. There was old blood caught in the flesh, darkening everything, but it was beginning to leach out, and the swelling had gone down substantially. The lines looked like a dog's head, if she squinted.

She pressed the cloth to a few redder spots, spots that had looked angry and hot, and he spat a curse, fingers clawing on the edge of the sink.

"You were a better patient when you were half out of your mind with panic," she told him. "Your whining gets worse every time."

"I'm getting fed up with being an invalid," he replied, glowering at her in the mirror. Then his expression softened, eased into a smile. "Though I do appreciate your ministrations."

She hummed in response.

They were in his quarters in Holger. It had been only a day since Attano's execution, but it seemed weeks ago already. After she'd returned from Havelock's pub, and he from his stay with Burrows and the other worries, she'd attended to his wounds and updated him on what Havelock and Pendleton had had to say. He, as usual, appreciated her discretion.

She hadn't mentioned Havelock's comments about her uncle.

They're talked as she worked, and he'd related some of what had happened at the meeting. The woman had, indeed, been Lydia Boyle. Treavor's identifications of everybody were spot on. They'd spent the early afternoon talking of Attano and the state of the city, and while nobody had shared anything that made them vulnerable, Martin's spirits were clearly bolstered. He knew the city now, he said, or more of it than before.

She'd asked if Burrows had made any other veiled references to Martin's injury. He hadn't.

They'd spent the rest of the day handling common affairs, and quietly making plans for the raid on the Golden Cat. They would not be informing Havelock of their timing, or their knowledge. The next morning, they would go themselves with Windham and a few other Overseers to the Golden Cat. They would first claim to be investigating possible bone charm use by the courtesans, and would use that as an excuse to search the whole space. It would be imperative that they move fast, so as to preclude any other accomplices from moving the girl as they worked.

Everything was ready, or nearly so - but now the waiting began.

Callista wrapped fresh bandages around Martin's chest, then reached up to touch his jaw. "Your beard grows fast," she said.

"Mm- I could probably go another day," he said, lifting his own hand, rubbing at his stubble.

"In case anybody suspects injury, it might be better to look immaculate for the coming days."

He considered a moment. She watched his expression in the mirror. His fingers tapped, faintly, on the sink basin.

Slowly, he nodded.

"I agree," he said. "Though perhaps I can sit this time?"

"If you can find a chair you're comfortable in," she agreed, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

If every time she bent forward over his desk showed her trust for him, this was its counterpart. Martin dragged a chair in from the sitting room - a low-backed, simple thing - and sat facing _away_ from the mirror. He didn't want to see her work. She found his razor (it sat differently in her hand, but felt quite welcome there), checked its edge, stropped it. She wet his badger-hair brush.

It was new.

The razor was not.

That was not to say that the razor wasn't in fine shape, but it clearly had been sharpened and honed many, many times, and once or twice had found itself sitting in the wet air of the Gristol coastline without a desiccant to keep the rust away. It was finely restored, and well-loved, though, and as she considered it, swirling the badger hair brush in his shaving soap meditatively, she caught the engraved name of the manufacturer.

_Colquhuon & Sons of Fraeport_

It had come with him all the way from Morley, then.

Which meant that he'd come from Morley as no earlier than as a young man, needing to shave. It made sense, she supposed - he must have been a young man there to make enemies dedicated enough to assault him on the streets of Dunwall.

She crossed from the counter to Martin's seat, and lathered up his jaw and cheeks. He hummed low in his throat as the brush slid over his stubble. The soap he had was finer than Geoff's, and smelled of bergamot and cardamom and several other heady spices she couldn't name or even distinguish. It curled into her nose and made her shiver, and she realized as she moved back to the sink to rinse the brush that it was because she'd only smelled it a few times before - all when she was close to Martin, pinned against his chest or lifted in his arms.

Callista swallowed, thickly, and tapped out the brush with more vigor than was strictly necessary, before hanging it to dry.

Whatever feelings of practicality had shielded her the previous morning seemed to be entirely gone. Her hand trembled as she picked up the blade, and looked over to Martin, shirtless and waiting, willing to trust her again.

Her tongue brushed against the backs of her teeth, remembering how they'd been wedged apart by the spine of Tynan. Her cheeks burst into brilliant heat.

She swallowed down the surge of arousal, and focused on the task at hand. He was trusting her; she would validate that trust. It was their usual give and take. It was what gave her power, and what made him offer his companionship. She returned to his side, and touched her free hand lightly to his jaw, gently nudging his head to one side. He let her lead, and his eyes closed half-way as she touched the blade lightly to his skin and made the first pass.

When it was done, and his skin was unbroken, she let out a long breath.

"Nervous, Miss Curnow?" he murmured.

"A bit. I'm no expert barber," she said, refusing to meet his gaze. She tilted his jaw again, pulled his skin taut, and made another pass with a lick of defiance teasing at her composure.

"You're doing fine so far," he returned.

It was hard to believe him, given the tension in his shoulders, but she tried to. She furrowed her brow and bared his cheek, then his upper lip and his chin. When she urged him to expose the other side of his face, he did so by leaning his whole shaved cheek into the palm of her hand.

The motion exposed his throat. Her breath caught. His eyes were on hers, burning, and she wondered if now that he had regained his composure, this was a _test_ instead of a frightening necessity.

The thought of blood spilling from his slit throat made her own veins chill, and she had to take a moment, closing her eyes and breathing, to push the intrusive thought away.

_Control_. That was the key. It had kept him from choking the life out of her - and from fucking her. It had kept her from panicking, losing control in front of Pendleton, or Burrows, or the Overseer who had come for her head. Life was an exercise in control.

She had practiced all her years.

When she opened her eyes again, Martin was smirking, but there was anxiety in his eyes. Her thumb traced along his cheekbone before she lifted her hand, and manipulated his skin to a drum-tight surface. The blade moved easily.

This time, when Martin had to tilt his head back to bear his throat in truth, he did so without a moment's panicked hesitation - but she could see his pulse jumping in his throat, and his chest rising and falling with studied gravity.

This time, she didn't remind him that he could trust her. He already knew that. He already did.

But as her blade made its third pass, he twitched or she hesitated, and the blade bit into his flesh. It was a small nick, but blood beaded on the blade, and she swore and pulled back just as Martin went rigid, eyes closing tight, breath gusting out of his flared nostrils as he fought to remain still.

The moment the blade was away from him, though, his eyes shot open and he surged out of his chair, hand catching her wrist.

"Accidents happen," she whispered.

His jaw tightened. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath. But as she watched, Callista slowly realized that there was none of the rage she'd expected in his expression. He wasn't angry, ready to attack.

He was frightened. He looked at her like a man betrayed.

Tentatively, she reached out and touched his cheek with her free hand. "Sit down. I'll get a bit of gauze, and blot it. We can wait as long as you need to before starting again."

His upper lip curled a moment before he let go and moved back to his seat. "I don't need to wait," he murmured.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded. "Still, let me get that gauze."

Once the blood was blotted away, she could barely see the cut. It was tiny, inconsequential, but it had worked its change on Martin. He was rigid beneath her, and he held his breath as she shaved the rest of his throat. When she stepped back, he moved to stand up.

"No hot towel?" she asked, but he was already out of his seat and reaching for a dry towel to clean himself up with.

"No, not today," he said, not looking at her.

"We still have your hair to do."

He didn't answer, instead striding from the bathroom towards the sitting room.

She took her time cleaning and putting away her medical tools and the shaving kit, wiping down the sink fastidiously when she was done. She didn't like the look or scent of blood, though she'd long ago passed the point of being overwhelmed by it. Still, having it clinging in droplets to the basin was unnerving.

When she returned the chair to its usual spot, she found Martin nursing a glass of whiskey, empty hand clenching and loosening at his side. As she watched, he slipped a hand into his uniform pants and pulled out a coin. He danced it along his fingers. The flash of the coin became timed with the minute relaxing of the muscles of his back.

Finally, he leaned forward, resting his head on the mantle.

Callista disappeared into the bathroom again, this time in search of pomade.

When she returned, he sat down at the small work desk tucked into the corner of the room and let her set his hair. He pretended to look at the documents scattered across its surface, but she could tell his focus was inward. There was no threat in having his hair neatly slicked back that she could see, but his grip on his glass was tight.

_I didn't mean to frighten you_ was on her lips, but she could imagine his response. He'd withdraw further, inform her that he hadn't been frightened, dismiss her or mock her or do something else to push her away. He was frightened, and ashamed, and she thought he might even be slightly confused.

The mix unsettled her. In her apartment, injured and still shaken from his assault, of course he had been hesitant to trust her.

But here? Now?

A few minutes later, as she buttoned him into his scarlet coat, she cleared her throat. "I feel, perhaps, as if a rebalancing is in order," she said.

That seemed to draw him back. "Rebalancing?"

"I'm usually the one placing my trust in you, not the other way around."

He was silent. She arched a brow.

"So if I were to, perhaps..." Her mouth was dry; she longed for his whiskey, but the glass was empty now. "Our old games," she managed, flushing faintly and turning to retrieve his belt and harness.

"_Old games_," Martin mused, and she thought she could _hear_ his smile. "Not so old. It's only been- what, a week?"

"Two. You seemed... definitively finished, last time."

"I had some thinking to do."

She turned back to him, leather in hand, to find him appraising her.

"Are you offering to bend yourself over my desk to make me feel a bit more in control, Miss Curnow?" His confidence was more tentative than usual. She could see him contemplating, testing, evaluating. "Asking for comfort and offering it are... very different."

She swallowed, and stepped closer, looping the leather straps into place. It put her right up against him, and he leaned into her touch as she set his buckles. The scent of his shaving cream wrapped around her head, still strong and vibrant.

"I am," she said at last.

"And yet you wouldn't let me kiss you yesterday."

"I still won't," she responded, heartbeat skipping faster and faster. Her hands had stilled on the buckle at his waist.

He leaned down the few inches difference in their height. "Then I won't kiss you. But I might press you farther than before." His hand - ungloved still - came to hover over her waist, close enough that she could almost feel him.

"Farther?" she asked.

His eyes seemed to sparkle. "I'll have to consider exactly what I want of you. Tonight, once we have everything set to make history in the morning, I want you to come up to this room. We'll have quite a bit of time to pass, and I figure that neither of us will find sleeping easy."

"Are you saying," she said, voice faltering, "that you intend to-"

She couldn't make the words.

He chuckled.

"We have appearances to keep up, Miss Curnow. What was it you said? You didn't want to give the rumors truth? So no, I won't fuck you. Not unless you ask me to."

He stepped away. Callista swayed on her feet, the air around her too hot and then, suddenly, too cold and empty. She cleared her throat and straightened her own uniform, trying not to think of his body heavy atop hers, or his hand between her thighs. No- no, she wanted the balance back. She wanted to be at his mercy, for their comfort.

She wouldn't ask him.

"It will be our own private Fugue Feast, Miss Curnow," Martin called from where he was retrieving his gloves. "The in-between time, before the start of a new era. But until then-"

"We have work to do," she said, and let herself out into the hallway.

* * *

The day was chaos. Martin was locked up in meeting after meeting, about this initiative to combat the plague, that district search to root out heretics, and again and again the simple daily workings of the Abbey - food and training and the breeding of new hounds. Half he passed on to her, and she struggled to stay on top of it, while her mind raced and she tried to find time to check rosters and draft the appropriate documents for the raid in the morning. She told nobody about the plan, recruited nobody, too afraid that word would get out that they would be searching the brothel.

She assembled the team in other ways, making sure patrols were set up with trustworthy, skilled men that Martin was interested in promoting through the ranks. Anybody on the team in the morning would gain status, but would also be at risk. It was impossible to predict how Burrows would respond.

They ate lunch together, but it was a quick, perfunctory thing, all Martin's speech given over to lamenting the administrative duties of his office, with none to what had happened that morning, or what would happen that night. It was surprisingly easy, though, to put it from her mind as she walked the practice yards and spoke with the kennelmaster.

But after she'd eaten a small meal and the sun had gone down, there were no other ways to distract herself. Martin's last meeting ended, and she waited half an hour to climb the steps to his rooms.

She counted her breaths with the steps, then held her breath as she stared at the door.

_Our own private Fugue Feast_, she reminded herself, and repeated all his promises to her. She was safe, here. They would pass the time until morning, and she would replace the roiling uncertainty in her belly that sprung from their plans for the coming day with the nervous anticipation of what lay behind that door.

She knocked.

"Come in," he called, and she touched the knob, her hands sweating inside her cloth gloves. She took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

Martin stood waiting for her just a few feet away.

He'd found himself a sling.

It was the only coherent thought she could dredge up from the riotous chaos of her uncertainty and arousal. He'd found himself a sling, and in preparation for her visit, had undone his jacket up the front and slipped his arm from one sleeve, so that the stiff fabric support could ease any strain on his injured back. Where had it been that morning, when they'd been alone together? Why had she never suggested it?

Martin chuckled, and she dragged her eyes back to his face.

"Did you see a physician?" she asked, pulling her thoughts away from the phantom, anticipatory ache at the backs of her thighs and instead to his schedule. They had been separate most of the day, but unless he'd shifted his meetings around, there should have been no time to see even the Abbey medics, if he'd been willing to.

"No, I had one brought up to the office. I said it was for you," he said. "An accident on the steps at your apartment - just a twinged elbow. You'll have to wear it tomorrow."

Martin crossed the few feet between them, shoes silent on the plush rug. He reached out and cupped her face in one gloved hand. "You look overwhelmed, Miss Curnow. Too much to think about?"

When she said yes, the game would begin. She was sure of it. His eyes glittered, and his good shoulder was tense with readiness. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded.

Martin pulled away. She waited for a command. Instead, he went over to his small writing desk, where he'd placed two glasses of wine - this time, effervescent and pale, its minute bubbles clinging to the sides of the long-stemmed glasses. He picked one up and held it out to her.

She shook her head. Wine would taste like ash, given her nerves, and it no doubt deserved to be appreciated.

Martin quirked a brow, then pulled his hand back. He considered the glass. Then, slowly, he moved to the armchair set by the narrow, protectively-barred window. They were on the top floor of the Abbey, away from any prying eyes.

He settled into the seat, leaning on his good arm, elbow braced on the armrest. He considered her, and sipped his wine.

"Well, then," he said, and her body thrummed in answer, tingling and tensing along the length of her spine.

She cleared her throat.

"Miss Curnow," he said, face impassive, almost bored. "Please remove your trousers."

Her mouth went dry. "I thought-"

"I don't want to ruin your uniform, Miss Curnow," he said, his voice a heavy beat, keeping her oriented to him. "Remove your trousers. You may also want to remove your knickers - I don't know how you feel about having shredded underthings." He pillowed his cheek against his loosely-curled fist. "Your uniform jacket, too, depending. And I can't imagine that corset is going to be comfortable."

She was shaking, uncontrollably, and she couldn't work up the strength to even fumble with one button. The other times, he had worked with what had been presented to him. Stripping was too much. Stripping meant-

_Something_.

Martin kicked his heel back against the leg of the chair, and the clear booming sound made her jerk.

"That was an order, Miss Curnow. Start stripping."

Her eyes were wide, lips parted in shock, but she twitched into action. Her gloved fingers slipped against the fasteners of her clothing, so she tugged them off and let them fall to the floor. Mechanically, barely seeing, she undid her belt, the toggles of her jacket, the fasteners of her trousers. Her face burned.

Her belly tightened, and twisted, and her breath caught and heaved.

He'd seen her in her bedclothes before, she reminded herself. By the time she stepped out of her trousers and shrugged out of her jacket, there was too much momentum to allow for hesitation. She stripped until she was left in her shoes, gartered stockings, knickers that barely brushed the tops of her thighs, and her corset and undershirt.

Her hands stilled above the lacing, then, slowly, dropped back to her sides.

Only then did she look back to Martin. He was fixated, drinking in the thin lines of her figure, the angles and planes of her. His wine was forgotten. As she watched, his eyelids drooped, and his lips curled into his confident, arrogant smile once more. She straightened her shoulders, and pressed her knees together.

"Plain, undyed cotton," he mused. "Soft enough, I imagine, and better than wool, but nothing indulgent. _Do_ you ever indulge, in anything?"

Her mouth and throat were dry, and she'd forgotten how to speak.

"You like my wine well enough," he continued, easily. He'd barely left time for her to reply. Did he understand, then, that speaking felt impossible? That his gaze had wrapped itself around her throat, and had squeezed sense from her, leaving her gasping for breath before he'd so much as touched her?

"And you like my power, and my command." He looked her up and down, slowly, gaze lingering on her polished but worn shoes, on the darker, pinched sections of her stockings where she'd darned them, on the patchy stains and stretched sections of coutil that spoke to the age of her corset. "I suppose that what makes your obedience so attractive, Miss Curnow. You appear simple on the outside, but you have your intricacies. Tell me- have you ever played these games before? With an employer? With another tutor? With a dockhand?"

She flushed. "No," she managed.

"Your Fugue Feasts, then - did you indulge in those?"

She nodded.

"Good girl," he said, with a chuckle. "But I take it they were largely fumbling affairs?"

"Sometimes."

"I don't intend to fumble."

Her thighs quivered. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for just a moment to steady herself. She heard a faint creak, and then the groan of the chair as Martin stood up. Her eyes flew open. He'd set his wine aside, untouched, and had returned to the desk.

He stooped and pulled a length of thick red cord from one of the drawers, then straightened up and paced behind her. Callista stood, rigid.

"Arms out behind you," he said. "Wrists together."

Any thoughts of the coming day were gone, her awareness focused wholly on his voice and the rising excitement and fear inside of her. The fear, as before, was tempered with the certainty of her safety, of her trust in him, but it was sharper than usual. He'd never restrained her before, and this felt more dangerous than his hand around her throat.

She swallowed, licked her lips, then rolled her shoulders back and held her arms out behind her.

One hand trailed along the inside of her bare arm. She heard him shrug out of his sling, then gasped as he touched the cord to her skin. It was smooth, not prickly like the rope used down by the quay. Once, a lover of hers had tied her wrists to the bedposts - but the rope had smelled like brine, and the fibers had pricked into her skin until she broke out in a rash.

This cord, in contrast, felt gentle and kind.

Until he looped it around her wrists in a figure eight, and pulled tight. She gasped as he tugged on it, dragging her arms backwards, pressing her chest out. She squirmed, and he chuckled, low and close to her ear.

"Don't struggle, Miss Curnow," he breathed. "Put your faith in me, and I promise you'll enjoy it."

He gave another tug, and this time, she moved with it. She swayed on her feet. Then she stilled when he touched her hip, lightly. She kept her breathing calm as he began looping the cord further up her arms, to nearly her elbows. Once, he pulled tight, and it drew a soft cry from her - and he relaxed the cord immediately. He didn't bind her elbows tightly together, instead allowing space between them, space that he filled with quick knotwork.

"Any higher," Martin said, "or any tighter, and you might dislocate your shoulders. I've seen men suspended for days by just their arms, bound like this. It isn't pretty. But for a few hours, done right, I find it can be quite enjoyable."

"Oh," she managed, then shivered as he placed his hand in the bowl formed by hers. With her arms strained back, her sense of touch seemed magnified, and her fingers splayed as she tried to hold onto him.

He pulled away, and circled in front of her once more, easing his arm back into its sling.

"How does your corset feel now?" he murmured, reaching out to touch the utilitarian clasps along the front. "I can imagine your ribs must be pushing forward quite a bit."

It was true that her breathing felt shallow, and that the contortion of her spine made her corset press in strange places, but she shook her head. "It's fine," she breathed. She didn't want it removed. She didn't want him to see how her chest heaved, or how her nipples had already tightened to hard buds that, when they moved slightly against her clothing as she breathed, sent sharp, bright pricks of sensation racing to her spine and gut.

"Be sure to let me know if that changes." His hand skimmed along the curve of her waist, and then he stepped back.

"I considered blindfolding you," he said, "but I think I prefer to see your eyes. Are you frightened, Miss Curnow?"

She didn't know. She knew her eyes were wide, and that her breathing was fast, and that her only thought was for the moment, not daring to imagine what might happen next. But she didn't know if she was frightened.

She certainly didn't want to leave, though, and she didn't want it to end.

So she shook her head.

"I'm glad," he said. "I don't want you to be frightened of me. Come here, if you would." He held out a hand, and she stepped closer. Her balance felt off. Wrong. She was used to leading with a hunched shoulder, or a bowed head, not a proffered chest. She felt exposed and vulnerable, and as she came close, Martin leaned in. His breath ghosted along her shoulder.

He grabbed up the cord leading from her arms, and held it loosely in his hand. He led her by it, gently, to the dining room with its small, private table, large enough to seat only four at a time. It was bare except for a pillow. He'd pulled one of the chairs out so that the seat was turned half-away from the table, and he motioned to it.

"Climb up," he said.

She lifted her foot, muscles trembling, and stood up onto the chair, and then onto the table.

"Now- kneel for me."

His smile was indulgent as she slowly, shakily, began to lower herself. Every slight tip made her seize up and go rigid, throwing herself back towards her centerline, afraid of falling with no way to catch herself. Up at eye level, she was on display, and she could feel her skin burning down past the top of her corset.

She'd intended for this to be an exercise in control, and trust, and redirecting their attentions, but there was no hope of ignoring how badly she wanted him to touch her, and how terrified the thought made her.

She settled onto her knees at last, and Martin let go of the cord. He left her side, and she focused on breathing, focused on how cool and comfortable the air was against her hypersensitive skin. She hunched forward, belly settled onto her thighs, head down, and with her chin she dragged the pillow closer, so she could rest her cheek on it.

The sound of leather on skin made her sit up again, only to find a soft, cool piece of leather pressing against the back of her neck.

"Head down, Miss Curnow," Martin purred, "and ass up."

Heart pounding in her chest, she slowly lowered her shoulders and lifted her hips. He trailed the leather from the back of her neck, down her back, over her bound arms, and into her hands. Martin held it there a moment so that she could feel its contours. It was a folded-over leather strap, a few inches wide, attached to a stick.

It was a crop.

Her toes curled in her shoes and she cringed away from it, but he followed her, dragging the crop down over her thin knickers, along her thighs, to the hollows of her knees. She shivered and twitched, and he chuckled.

"Don't worry, Miss Curnow. You're safe here. Now, take a deep breath."

She did, and as she let it trickle from her lungs, Martin switched the crop lightly against her thighs. She yelped and pulled away. He grabbed the cord and hauled her back. He kept hold of it as he positioned himself beside the table at an angle where he could work the crop easily with his good hand, then held it tight as he brought the crop down again, a little harder this time.

It was sharper than his hand, the blows more painful, more focused. She stared ahead, shocked and uncertain of how to act.

"Miss Curnow?" he asked, voice a hoarse whisper. The sound that escaped her in reply was small, uneven, and unbidden.

He loosened the rope by an inch, maybe more. The next swipe of the crop eased instead into a strange sort of tenderness, focused only on the most fleshy part of her. From there, he alternated light blows with teasing strokes of the crop, and she slipped slowly into the gentleness, into the wordless, utter focus on his actions. By the time the blows grew syncopated again, harder, more difficult to predict, she'd fallen headlong into that place inside of her that needed the grounding, the unrelenting reality of the sting of leather biting into her skin.

She whined, hips shifting, chest pressing harder to her knees. In answer, he moved the crop lower, lavishing attention on her thighs. The leather skipped over the smooth curves of her skin, over her garters, and once or twice dipped between her legs, a few inches below her knickers. Sometimes he moved it in blows, and other times in trailing, enticing whispers.

Callista closed her eyes, and drank it all in. The letting go came fast and easy, and again it came without the relieved and overwhelmed tears of the first time. This time it came with a feeling very close to bliss. The pain was understandable, it was agreed upon, it was negotiated. There were no unwelcome surprises, no moments of horror or panic or crushing defeat. The world, within these walls, was safe. Pain didn't mean danger; it transformed to mean the reclamation of all the pain she'd felt without consent.

It washed over her, and soon she couldn't feel the pain at all.

She did, however, feel when Martin's fingers gripped her chin, when his hand cupped her jaw and lifted her head from the pillow. She blinked, blearily, feeling the same groggy sense of disconnection that she had the day she'd denounced her uncle, overlayed with the calm vagueness that came upon waking from an easy, comfortable nap.

"There you are," he murmured. He still held the crop, though now it was in his weaker hand. The leather of it brushed her knees, and she shivered. She could feel a small, ridiculous smile on her lips. He answered it with one of his own.

"You went away, for a little bit," he continued, easing her upright. "I pushed you too far."

She shook her head, then felt the rest of her body shake too. "It stopped hurting," she protested, her tongue thick and heavy.

He looked vaguely concerned at that, and he set the crop down. "I think," he said, "that we're done with that for the night."

"_No_," she said, the thought kindling fear in her. "No, not yet. I can't- I don't want to go-"

Martin's hand on her jaw tensed, and he pulled her head up, straining her neck. She pressed into the feeling. His own jaw was tight, his brow furrowed, his gaze distant.

Then he smiled. It was the same smile that always came after his little internal wars.

"I just meant that we're done with the switching for the night," he purred. "There are other things we can do."

The fear receded, and she became aware of how her legs and ass throbbed. Yes, stopping the rain of blows was probably a good idea. Tomorrow, she would have to-

It wasn't tomorrow yet. She nodded, and straightened up, gasping at the sensation. Her stockings were torn up near their tops, and her flesh bulged through the small gaps. Her knickers were damp with sweat, clinging to her sensitized flesh.

"Can you stand?" he asked, and she nodded. She _would_ stand. She focused inward, and drew herself up, though her knees knocked together. She stepped gingerly from the table onto the chair, and then the floor. Martin was at her side, and the moment she was stable, he looped his good arm around her.

He pressed his lips to her brow, and she went very still.

"You continue to surprise me," he murmured against her flesh. "Now- I want you to get down on your knees, and crawl back out to the parlor. I want you to go find my wine glass. You distracted me earlier, and I didn't get to enjoy it. It's probably gone flat, but I can't imagine there's much you can do about it, now." His hand toyed with the cord at her wrists. "I want you to retrieve the glass for me."

She waited for him to undo the knots binding her arms, but he only let go, and turned away from her, moving to set his dining room back in order.

Her mind, still foggy, struggled to race through her options. She dropped awkwardly to her knees, and nearly pitched forward.

Martin made no move to help her.

She began to shuffle forward. Each inch was a battle fought and won not only against the awkwardness of her body and her restraints, but against the throbbing memory of the riding crop, against her own uncertainty, against her slowly returning embarrassment. By the time she made it across the great expanse of fine stone (cold against her knees where her stockings were beginning to wear through) and plush carpet, she was heaving for breath. The wine had been forgotten except as a destination.

She stared at the glass, unsure and frustrated.

Calling for Martin to unbind her never crossed her mind, nor did giving up. Instead, she stared at the glass, its bubbles now few and still, brow furrowed. An exquisite agony tore at her. She considered her options. Grasp the bowl of the glass with her teeth? Tilt her head sideways so she could carry the stem upright in her mouth? Neither seemed feasible. She pictured again and again the fine wine spilling out onto the carpet.

She could hear, distantly, Martin moving around the dining room. He would emerge soon, and find her- what? Staring at his glass of wine, unable to obey his command? She didn't want that. She frowned at the glass, then took a deep breath as she hit upon a new idea.

Bending down, she touched her lips to the glass and slowly, slowly lowered, until the wine tipped into her mouth. She held it on her tongue, its bright acidity almost too much to bear, its bubbles springing to life against her cheeks.

She pulled away. The narrow, empty glass, that had held only a single mouthful, dropped onto the rug, but she ignored it, focused only on turning around and shuffling back to the dining room.

Martin reached the threshold just as she did, and she looked up at him, head swimming from the alcohol leaching into her flesh, senses alight with the constant wash of tannins and sugars over her tongue.

He looked her over. "I thought I asked for my wine," he said, quirking a brow.

She strained up, tilting her face to him, and parted her lips just enough that a bead of wine slipped from them, and slid down her chin.

Martin inhaled, sharply.

Callista tried to stand, but the effort made her gag, slightly, the wine trying to escape down her throat. She didn't have to, though; Martin dropped to one knee in front of her. His gaze flicked across her features, judging, weighing, evaluating. His hand shook when at last he reached for her and cupped her cheek.

"Very thoughtful of you, Miss Curnow," he breathed at last, then leaned in and kissed her.

His tongue nudged her lips apart, and she relaxed, letting the wine flow into his mouth. He groaned and swallowed it down, then lapped at her lips and tongue until the last of it was gone. Her head spun as he pulled away abruptly.

She hadn't thought, when she'd filled her mouth with wine, about how she would deliver it to him. Spitting it out into a new glass would have bordered on the repulsive. A kiss was much cleaner. But she'd told him not to kiss her just that morning, and he'd agreed.

It wasn't a kiss, she decided, panting open-mouthed and looking at the line of his jaw instead of his face.

"And to think, I'd expected you to get the glass into your hands," he murmured, reaching out to touch her bare palms.

Her cheeks heated.

_Oh_. She hadn't even thought of-

Martin shifted behind her, shrugging aside his sling and tugging off his gloves. He touched her palms again then began loosening the knots. She'd grown used to the tension and pressure of the cord, and as it fell away, her arms felt light. She felt like she was floating. She pulled her arms back in front of her when they were free, and swayed, slightly, at the rush of new sensation.

When he stood up, she felt his absence like a blow. She turned to him, only to find him striding towards the parlor. She followed, on hands and knees at first, then climbed to her feet and padded after him. It felt strange to stand, and her head spun.

At the sound of her footsteps, he slowed, then turned.

"I never said you could get up, Miss Curnow. Knees. Now."

She dropped down to them.

He looked at her, his gaze heavy, then took a deep breath and ran a finger beneath his collar. He dropped back into his armchair, nudging the empty glass away with his toe. Ignoring her, he looked at the window, then at his bookshelf.

"Go to the shelf. Get me the book with the red and gold spine. Just like you did with Tynan."

Callista nodded, lips curling into a smile. She could do that quite easily. She crawled across the rug, grateful for the use of her hands, and went to the shelf. The red and gold-spined book was at the bottom shelf, and she bent low, nudging the volume out with her chin, then fitting her lips and teeth around the binding. It was narrower than Tynan. She lifted it easily and came to him.

He took it from her without so much as a look. He didn't cup her cheek or touch her brow. And when he opened the book on his lap, and began reading, he made no pronouncements or comments.

Suddenly, she felt very alone.

Still, it was part of the game. His silence made her fixate on him, and she appreciated it. She knelt close by, at his feet, and she read the upside-down pages. Slowly, her brow furrowed. He was reading up on the powers and limitations of the position of Lord Regent.

He was doing _work_.

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Perhaps the book had only sprung to mind because he had used it recently. Perhaps it wasn't work at all. She waited. She waited, and watched his hand as he turned each page, and watched his features as he simply- read.

Once, he stood. He retrieved the glass of wine he had poured for her, and he drank it himself. He kept the book in hand, and paced. He left the room, once, only to return a few minutes - _minutes_! - later.

Her knees began to ache. She began to grow frustrated and restless, and it wasn't the small, focused, helpless frustration of staring at the wine glass. It was more expansive. It went beyond their game. He had abandoned it when it was something they had both agreed they needed. She had offered herself up, and he had used her, until- what?

He grew bored?

She pressed her lips together, trying not to think of how his kiss had felt, how his tongue had slipped into her mouth, how she had wanted to lean in a little more. He was humiliating her, by ignoring her. This wasn't the sort of game she'd asked for. It gave her nothing, and left her feeling used in return.

When he finally returned to his seat, she was done. She moved to stand up. Her motion finally caught his attention, and she stared back at him, challenging him with a furrowing of her brow.

His eyes, in turn, were wide, his lips slightly parted.

The book in his hand closed with a snap, and he set it aside, hurriedly, and slid from the seat. Before she could stand or respond, he'd bent his head to her throat. He kissed her at the corner of her jaw, then lower, and she responded with a confused gasp, her arms sliding around him.

"Martin-"

He growled something unintelligible, then moved lower, sinking onto his knees, shuffling back as he mapped out a path over the swell of her breasts, down the plane of her stomach. She couldn't feel him through her corset, but she could imagine the blossoming spots of heat. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, gingerly, and she leaned back against the bookshelf, legs sprawling before her, around him.

His jaw dragged along the top of one thigh, and she whispered his name again.

This wasn't the game, either, but she quickly parted her legs for him, lifted her aching, raw hips for him when he tugged at the fabric of her knickers. She squirmed until she could pull one stockinged leg free, then reached for his finely-pomaded hair as he leaned in, arms wrapping around her thighs, holding her open for him. His tongue was hot and certain, and she cried out, fingers tightening against his scalp. The illusion broke, falling away in pieces, and she couldn't help her laugh.

Their games had _always_ been about lust.

Lust for control, lust for order, lust for distraction- for each other. It had been far more comfortable to ignore it, but now, with him lapping at her nub and exploring her folds, tongue nudging inside of her and making her squirm, she gave in. In the morning, all would be forgiven and forgotten, the time set aside where it belonged - outside the year and responsibility - but now she threw back her head and drank in every flare of pleasure, every answering echo of pain when her raw skin dragged against the carpet, or was pulled taut by his grasping, kneading fingers.

She could still taste the wine in her mouth, and could feel the phantom sensation of Martin's hand on her throat, on her waist. She fell into it, world narrowing. When she came apart, gasping his name and tightening her thighs around him, she didn't care about anything beyond the heat of her own body.

Lying there, panting, refusing to drag herself back together, she waited for the sound of his belt being undone, his trousers pushed down.

It never came.

Instead, he crawled up along her body and slid his good arm beneath her back. He pulled her up, against him, and her arms circled around his shoulders. Wordlessly, he guided her up and into the chair, then settled down heavily between her legs, resting his cheek on one thigh. His breath ghosted out towards her knee.

She looked down at him, for a moment forgetting to question, her hand settling against his scalp. She could see red marks spiralling around her wrists and forearms, and she shifted in her seat, pushing her hips forward until her weight was balanced more on her lower back than her legs. The welts across her flesh were beginning to prick back to life in red-hot stinging lines.

"Did you know," Martin murmured, between heavy, studied breaths, "that you have a bit of an accent when you're crying my name?"

"I grew up in the countryside," she replied, voice thick and lazy. Her brow furrowed. She could see, if she leaned forward, how he strained against his trousers, but he made no move to relieve himself. He looked, instead, very tired. "I spent the first... six months of my professional life learning to hide it. Even the children of tailors know not to listen to a woman who sounds like she should be tending blood oxen."

He sighed, eyelids drooping. "All your intricacies," he murmured, reaching up to trail his fingers down her calf. "Tell me about it. Your childhood. Or your tutoring. Whatever you- want to tell me."

She frowned, then scowled, then shifted her leg beneath his head. It was heavy. He refused to lift it.

"And if I don't want to?" she asked.

He shrugged, then hissed as it jostled his bad shoulder. The whole area would be red and inflamed, she knew, and his ribs must have been in agony. She waited for him to settle.

His fingers began drumming on her knee as he murmured, "I grew up in Caulkenny. Was born there, in the city."

Her fingers in turn stirred against his scalp, dragging whorls into his slicked-back hair. "Martin-"

"I knew my father, for a little while, before he left my mother destitute. She wasn't sick, then. She wasn't sick until I was a lad, and had joined up with other thieves and pickpockets and fences my age. Took me a year to realize we weren't as independent as I'd always fancied myself. I thought I was forging a path. Making the world listen. I didn't realize that the bigger kids let us get established, waited until we had our contacts, then sunk their claws into us." He laughed, and it was weak, and small, and she could see the same tension in his shoulders from when he'd struggled to master himself as she held a blade to his throat.

She bit her lip.

"There's a peculiarness to being Morlish, you know. No, you don't know- well. It's this heaviness mixed with an exultant lightness. You're beaten down, and broken, but it doesn't matter because at least you've got the countryside and your fists and the castoffs of the empire, even while they're stripping your soil and stamping out, generation after generation, anything a sane man would be proud of. So you start to prize other things. And it's only worse if you're poor. You grasp at everything on offer, you prove you're stronger, and better, and- I did all of that."

She leaned forward over him, and saw him smiling, grimly. His eyes were open, but only barely, and he stared straight ahead. "I wanted to rule the world. But politics were fucked, and so was the army, and I wasn't good enough for either anyway. So instead I worked my way up the ranks of the boys I'd fallen in with, until I was almost a man, and I was holding court. We were thieves, mostly. Smugglers, too. We moved weapons and munitions for the right price, and a few of my boys started dabbling in flesh, but it wasn't lucrative enough to my mind. Then along came this offer."

His voice was thick with his accent, and Callista's breathing slowed to the cadence of his rolling speech. Her body became a web of aching flesh and exhausted bones, the passion and need leaving her, with a nervous emptiness in its wake.

He was telling her too much; she wanted to squirm underneath the weight of his words.

"It sounded simple. Turn over my territory to somebody higher up the food chain, and I'd stay nominally the man in charge, and my boys would all be safe, too, as long as we paid our way up. In return, I'd get a nice new house, and medicine for my ma. Say no, and I'd have my ear sliced off, at a minimum. So I said yes, with every intention to replace the guy who'd offered.

"Then the bastard called the city watch, and half my boys ended up dead or in chains, and I ran. They took over, replaced all our operations. They'd never trusted me for a second. My reputation had preceded me."

Martin sighed, and lifted his head, staring at his arm as he worked it back into his sling.

"The other night?" Callista prompted, softly.

"The boys who lived, some of them."

Callista licked at her dry lips, resisting the urge to reach for him. "What happened after you left? Did you go to- Fraeport? Your razor-"

He laughed. "Perceptive," he said, voice edging on a sigh. "No. I stayed close to Caulkenny at first. Thought I'd try my hand at outright robbery. I made a name for myself again, out on the roads between Caulkenny and Alba, and I made a good living for a year or two, before my old crew gathered up their strength and their weapons and came to fetch me. I ran again."

"But you've stopped running, now," she said.

He turned to look at her. His gaze drifted to her thighs, to her red forearms. "I have," he said, softly, "but I doubt it'll last."

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked. "Now?" She lifted a hand, and he held out his in turn. He stood and drew her up with him.

He took a deep breath. "Do you want a convenient lie?" he asked. "I could tell you that the wine's gone to my head. That we're in our own private Fugue Feast and I believe you'll abide by it."

Callista's lips tightened. No, she didn't want that, except that it seemed much easier. Just like keeping up the fiction that they'd never kissed.

Martin's mouth pulled tight in something like a grin. "Or I could tell you that I trust you, Miss Curnow. More than I should, and more than I should want to." His gaze went distant, far away. "... But I do, and, moreover, I _do_ want to."

She reached out and settled a hand on his arm. "I moved to the city after I was orphaned. I had other family left, but Geoff was the best off of all of them. He had a home big enough for me, and I knew him well. I was fourteen. I dreamed of going out after leviathans then, still, though I knew it was foolish."

Martin watched her, unblinking, then let out a deep sigh. He placed his hand against the small of her back. "You should get- cleaned up. Going forward-"

"Going forward," she said, "I think we would be foolish to ignore... this."

His expression was unreadable, but absent among the myriad flashes of half-thoughts across his face was anger. At last, he nodded. "Indeed."

She glanced down. "Why didn't you...?"

"Because it was for you," he said, pulling away and twitching his jacket into place. He strode off towards the bathroom, and she followed. "You did- quite a lot for me. You have done quite a lot for me. I'm not sure I'd be here if not for you. I saw it as only- equitable."

He opened the taps to the tub, then went to the mirror, peering at himself in it. Callista turned away and worked open her corset. Her hands stilled once the laces were loose, holding the baleen and coutil in place.

He'd had his head between her legs, she decided. He could stand to see her naked.

She slipped out of the rest of her clothing, folding what was left neatly. She set it all aside, then twisted and inspected her backside. It was covered in crisscrossing welts, most faint, a few red and angry.

"How's your back?" she asked, straightening.

"... It's been better," he said. He was still looking in the mirror, searching for something she was fairly certain wasn't visible. He was clearly uncomfortable sharing his past in Morley; she'd seen that the night he showed up in her apartment, bloody and talking in circles. And now she was beginning to suspect his pacing and his absence before he'd pounced on her was another war within himself, balancing self-control against whatever it was connecting them.

But she couldn't bring herself to approach him. Instead, she stepped into the steaming water. "Ribs?"

"Sore. Agonizing." He chuckled. "Worth it, though. I suppose."

Callista sank down into the tub. The water was only up to the top of her belly, and it was almost too hot. The bottom of the basin clung to her abused flesh, and she grimaced and turned slightly onto her side. "Will you be ready for- tomorrow?"

"I'll have to hang back a bit, I think," he said, leaving the sink at last and approaching the tub. He settled down beside it, good arm propped on the edge. "As should you. We don't need to be the first in to take the credit."

The water pooled over the tops of her thighs, rising up towards her knees. She nestled her head against the side of the tub, in line with his.

"Will she be okay, do you think?" Corvo's beaten body flashed in her thoughts, and she frowned.

Martin tapped the edge of the tub, his lips pursed. "He has no reason to hurt her, and every reason not to. If he knows we're coming - if there's still a leak..."

_If there's still a leak_, she thought, _then one of us is breaking trust_.

"If there's a leak," he said after a moment's pained thought, "then he'll just move her, or reveal her tonight. Keep an ear out for announcements."

She looked at him with his tightly-furrowed brow, and his glittering eyes, sharp but focused on something far distant.

"She'll be there," Callista said. "Nobody knows. All I meant was... considering where she's been held? And the fact that Burrows can't be there all the time, and that Campbell's- _inspection_ visits have obviously stopped-"

"That would be why the Pendletons are responsible for her, I suspect," Martin said, turning his head to look at her. Their noses almost brushed. His expression was solemn. "Easy to cast them as the villains, in whatever way is necessary. Even if they're the ones to rescue her for the good of the Empire, if she later speaks out against them... well, they were acting in their own twisted self-interest."

"Their money won't be able to protect them from that," she said. "Not with the child Empress."

"No," Martin agreed. "So we must assume that Burrows is more than prepared to sacrifice them. The question, then, is do _they_ know it? Desperate men, Miss Curnow-"

"Callista," she said.

He managed a chuckle as he leaned forward to turn off the tap, but the laugh quickly turned to a groan and he sagged back against the edge of the tub. The water lapped lazily at the undersides of her breasts.

"_Miss Curnow_ suits you better, in my opinion. And I wouldn't want to slip in public and be too intimate, hm?"

She splayed her fingers in the water, then began rubbing gently at her arms, hoping that the blood reddening them would drain away. Her lips twitched towards a smile. "Or maybe," she said, "you just have a fondness for governesses. I've seen it before, you know. _Miss Curnow, will you punish me for flubbing my Serkonan dancing lessons?_"

He snorted. "Have you seen it in men who didn't learn to read until they were twelve years old, and then only by their own tutelage? I never sat in a schoolroom all my life, unless you count sermons at the Abbey."

"How _did_ you join the Abbey?" she asked, sinking a little lower in the tub and skimming her hands over her legs.

"... A story for another time, perhaps," he said, pulling away. He looked at her appraisingly, and she saw his easy arrogance fall into place, separating them. "Once you're washed, you should dress and leave. The longer you stay, the more likely somebody realizes that you're gone, and starts lurking by the stairs to see if you come down from here."

"We'll need another meeting space, then," she said. "For... other times."

He paused, strap of his sling caught between his fingers where he'd been fiddling with it. Then he stood. "I'll look into it, Miss Curnow."

He didn't question her, and that made her relax just a little more.

The door shut behind him, and she spread out in the tub, which was larger than the rest of his spartan furniture, no doubt a relic of Campbell's time that couldn't be easily replaced. There were even bath oils on a small stand nearby, and she added a few drops of the least fragrant of them. The scent still bloomed around her, and she closed her eyes, leaning her head back.

_Uncle_, she thought, _I know you wanted me to be safe, but_-

But while she had the affection and confidence of a powerful man, when she closed her eyes and saw Corvo's face, she couldn't help but think that their safety was tenuous. Even Martin expected it to end one day.

Still, she felt warm and momentarily safe, and if she focused on the ache in her ass, she could banish all the prickling fears and doubts. She imagined a confident, arrogant mask descending over her face, and found that it relaxed her limbs. She lingered, luxuriating, only rising from the water when it began to cool. Her hair was still mostly dry, and she reset it easily, before drying herself and dressing in short bursts as she followed the trail of her discarded clothing out to the study.

Martin sat in his chair, a book and several pages of notes in his lap. He looked calm, and never glanced up as she rolled her stockings up, or fastened her jacket.

When she was put back together again, she canted her head. "Good night, Martin."

"I'll see you in the morning, Miss Curnow," he said, not looking up from his book.

She couldn't help the small smile that formed on her lips, and tugged her uniform into place once again. "In the morning, High Overseer."

Martin closed his eyes, and she imagined his intake of breath. She carried the thought with her out of Holger and all the way to her uncle's apartment.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The courtyard leading to the Golden Cat was soaked in sunlight, and the plants that spilled from balconies and planters made the space an oasis in the city. She could barely smell the river, the air filled instead with floral notes and the heady perfumes that drifted from several open windows. There wasn't time to appreciate it, however, as she and Martin climbed to the front door, a squad of Overseers flanking them. Two preceded them, ignoring the watch officers who protested and argued, and going straight to the door, knocking loudly.

"By order of the High Overseer and the Abbey of the Everyman, submit yourselves to inspection!" Overseer Hume's voice was loud, perfect for the job. It sounded almost like a wolfhound's bark, and Callista decided she was grateful they had him. They'd decided to leave hounds behind for the mission, not wanting to terrorize the brothel itself, but having one in the form of a man was reassuring.

The doors opened, revealing an older woman with thick paint on her face. "Campbell had us inspected two months ago," she drawled, clearly unimpressed. "You're scaring my patrons. I'd appreciate it if you left and came back with an _appointment_, if you must."

Martin stepped forward, red coat brilliant in the sun. "Madame Prudence, is it not?"

She looked him up and down. "It is. So you're Campbell's replacement, then? What's the meaning of this?"

"We are acting on a tip, regarding heretical tools of worship," he said. "Probably nothing to worry about, Madame, but you'll understand that now, at the beginning of my term, with a city wracked by plague under my care, I must be _responsive_."

Prudence did an admirable job of hiding her sneer.

"I promise that we won't be long," Martin said. "And that if we find... the usual indiscretions in a place like this, we will make allowances. We're looking for a shrine, Madame, not the charms your girls keep in their garters."

"This _requires_ an appointment. The Lord Regent-"

"I don't see what the Lord Regent has to do with any of this," he said, baring his teeth in something approximating a smile. "And we are acting on a tip from a verified source. I wouldn't like for whatever shrine we're here to dismantle to be _moved_ because you allowed its owner notice. Step aside, Madame. Do not make this more difficult than it has to be, or I will have you inspected for heresy."

"Heresy!"

"You certainly are protesting against a common good. Do you approve of such shrines in your place of business, then?"

Callista could see the madame turn red where her thick powders feathered out along her brow and jawline. Prudence swallowed, thickly, then stepped back. "I don't appreciate your tone or technique, High Overseer, but we are friends of the Abbey here."

"No doubt," he drawled, and stepped over the threshold. Hume and the others poured in around him, and Callista rejoined him in the plush, sumptuous interior of the brothel. It was nicer than she'd imagined, all gilded and covered in red velvet, but she'd heard enough stories from her uncle to know that the ladies - a few of whom peered out from the fine staircase to their left - were not so well-off as their surroundings implied. Illness and violence had always lived in these halls.

Hume broke his men into three groups, and Martin watched on appraisingly. Two were to inspect the main parlor and associated side rooms, while one was headed into the living quarters. It was the last one that Martin and Callista fell in with. Shrines, of course, were more likely to be found in private spaces.

They passed from the crimson and gold into a grey, drab, chilled stairwell. Unused furniture and paintings were tucked beneath the stairs and leaned up against the walls. They moved methodically, clearing each floor, each washroom, each storeroom. Prudence followed, wringing her hands. She protested when they searched her office, and the fine bedroom that she occupied, and she tried to pull girls aside and whisper to them.

The Overseers, of course, didn't allow it. One Overseer would remain behind after every whispered exchange, questioning the girl, who would invariably turn pale and fearful. Callista watched them until the stairs obscured her view, then adjusted her sling and fixed her eyes forward.

At last, they reached the top floor, a long narrow hallway with metal-shuttered windows and a few doors.

"It's just the girls' rooms," Prudence said. "They change over so often, and they're three or four to a room - no space or time to build shrines."

"You would be surprised," Martin said, airily. Callista caught a feral curl in his lips.

If they were going to find the heir, it would be here. She was sure. Martin was, too.

She held her breath.

The first room held only a woman, sleeping, so exhausted she barely stirred when the boots of the Overseers shook her floorboards. They searched the room, and she groaned and rolled over in bed.

They found a rune tucked into the small writing desk.

What followed was the inevitable delay; Martin had planned on it, but it still made Callista anxious, watching them rouse the woman and drag her from the room, while another Overseer took the heavily worked piece of bone. Prudence, of course, threw up her hands and said that there were no shrines, and wasn't the rune enough? Hadn't they said they weren't hear to search for charms?

No, but they couldn't simply leave one that they had found.

While one of Martin's men argued with her, Martin ignored her and went to the second door himself. The Overseers blocked the hall and behind them, the courtesan screamed and begged. The cacophony was overwhelming. Callista slipped between the Overseers, ignored the plinkity-plonking of the music boxes, and jointed Martin.

The second door refused to open.

"I need a key!" Martin shouted over the din. "Madame Prudence!"

But Prudence was already down the stairs.

Martin swore.

"This," he whispered, "is where the City Watch will be brought in. She'll have them up here in a minute or two, ostensibly to protect her girl."

It wasn't the worst case scenario, but it wasn't good.

Martin eyed the door. With his back injured, he couldn't kick the door open, though she could see the bunching of his muscles as he considered it. She flinched as the Overseers wrestled the woman to the floor behind them. Down the hall, at the third door, women clustered, peering out into the hall, murmuring and swearing.

Turning to them, Martin smoothed out his jacket. "Nothing to worry about," he said, pleasantly, his unabashedly charming smile in place. "I'm sure all of you are just fine. Now- does one of you happen to know where the key is to this room?"

For a moment, nothing happened. The girl behind them continued to scream, then began to cry, then weep. Footsteps retreated down the stairs.

Then one of the women stepped from the far room. She held a key in her hand. "I was on caregiving duty. Don't tell Prudence," she said, and held it out.

Martin took it. "Of course not," he said. "Thank you for being of service to the Abbey."

She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. "Of course. It's just- we hear you're better than Campbell. We appreciate that."

He inclined his head. "I understand."

Callista didn't, but it wasn't difficult to put together some rough understanding. She watched the women disappear from the door, then shut it firmly behind them.

They were alone. The Overseers had taken their quarry back down the stairs, and would now be accidentally-on-purpose guarding the path up from the Watch.

Martin looked at her, holding the key. "It's us going in first after all," he said.

She nodded.

He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, then pushed the door open and stepped back.

Callista peered into the long, narrow room. The window was covered but the room was bright with lamplight. It shone off scraps of fabric and old curtains that were draped across rickety furniture and from the ceiling. It made a little fort, and standing tucked in its corner, staring warily at the door, was a girl all in white.

_Emily Kaldwin_.

She'd covered her walls with drawings, and even now she held a crayon as if it were a weapon. Her eyes darted from Callista to Martin and back.

She swallowed, her tiny throat working around fear too large for her.

Callista stepped forward, in front of Martin, and crouched down. Her hips and thighs protested; she ignored them. "Lady Kaldwin?" she asked, softly.

"Yes," the girl said, lifting her chin. Her jaw trembled slightly. "Have you come to free me, then?"

"Yes. Yes, we have," she said, smiling. "We've come to take you home."

The motions were familiar. She'd comforted more than her share of nervous or frightened pupils before, though none, of course, of Lady Kaldwin's status or predicament. Usually it had fallen to her to care for bumped knees and bruised egos. Callista's old, indulgent smile sat strangely on her face, though, and Emily Kaldwin did not approach.

How long had it been since she'd had a child in her care? Only a few months, surely. And yet-

"You're not High Overseer Campbell," the girl stated, looking at Martin. "And Overseers aren't women. I don't trust you."

Callista swallowed, thickly, and stood up, her limbs stiffening with afront.

Martin only chuckled. "Things have changed, Lady Kaldwin. Haven't you heard the announcements these last few weeks?"

A dark look passed over her face, and she twitched, glancing back over her shoulder. Callista followed her gaze.

There was a picture tucked under the mess of furniture that served as her fortress, and she made out a crude drawing of Corvo Attano. There were scribbles of red across the page, then a layer of flowers hastily drawn on top of it, as if to hide that there'd ever been blood.

"My name is Martin, your eminence," he said, kneeling now. "And you are correct - I am not Thaddeus Campbell. For one thing, I'm here to protect you, and Dunwall."

"He was a stupid, mean old man," Emily pronounced, gravely.

"He was. Of that I am entirely sure. And this is Miss Callista - you are right that women are not Overseers, but I've made an exception for her. She's my assistant. She also used to be a governess."

Emily regarded her, looking her up and down with a slow, measured track of her gaze. "... I don't like sums," she said.

Her voice trembled.

For all her standoffishness, for all her imperial training, the girl was close to breaking. Callista could still see that, even if she was no longer certain of her ability to offer comfort. There were sounds on the staircase behind them, no doubt Madame Prudence followed by guards or Overseers.

They would need to present a united front, for best effect.

"Will you let us take you home, Lady Kaldwin? I assure you, my days of teaching sums are over," Callista said, leaning forward, bracing her hands on her thighs.

"I want to get out of this place," Emily said, looking around. She took a few steps towards the fortress in the corner, then crouched and began gathering up certain drawings, picking selectively through her piles. She rolled them up in her small hands until they looked like an old-fashioned edict. Her white stockings were grubby about the knees, and her hands trembled.

She stopped, at last, in front of a drawing posted on the wall of two men, mirror images of one another, glowering down at her.

She tore it in two with a huff.

"And I want them _dead_," she said, shoving the scraps at Callista.

Callista accepted them, as if they were flowers from the garden, or a bug found beneath the steps. She stared down at the childish drawings of the Lords Pendleton.

"They will be called to trial," Martin said, smoothly. "And they will be punished for harming you. I swear to it."

"I want them _dead_," Emily repeated. "And I want it done publicly and horribly. Just like- just like they did to Cor-"

"A _girl_? I swear!" Madame Prudence's voice interrupted. A new rage of a slightly different flavor passed over Emily's face at the sound, before she schooled herself to utter blankness. Disdain radiated from the small girl. The amount of hatred in her bones was palpable, was soaked into the floorboards and shutters of the room.

Prudence appeared in the doorway, and made a great show of widening her eyes (despite their heavy layers of paint that made the lids droop), and covering her mouth. "Why did nobody _tell_ me there was a girl!" she bellowed.

Martin looked at Emily for a moment, then inclined his head and turned on his heel. He approached the woman at a saunter, then drew far too close for propriety.

Callista barely heard his purr of, "I would stop feigning ignorance, madame - better to say you were coerced and forced into it, reliant on the Pendleton fortune to keep these lovely ladies of yours fed and housed in a distressed city. It will go over better on the stands, I believe."

Beneath her paint, Prudence turned white, then narrowed her eyes and considered. She weighed her options, then stepped back. "Let me call you a car, then, to get this girl where she belongs."

Lady Kaldwin crossed the room, stomping heavily, and glared up at her.

"I am your _Empress_!" she snapped.

Prudence flinched. "Of course," she said, then sketched a mock curtsey. "My apologies. If, ah, I had _known_-"

Emily turned to look up at Martin. "She knew."

For a brief moment, it looked as if Martin would settle a hand on the girl's shoulder, but he only nodded. "I will take that into consideration. No, Madame Prudence, I believe I shall take my own car. Come along, then."

Callista came to the door and placed her hand just behind Emily's shoulders, not daring to touch. She escorted the girl into the middle of their attending squad of overseers, and descended the stairs out towards the main exit. Behind her, she could hear Prudence demanding restitution for the money she would lose from the girl the Overseers had dragged off.

She didn't hear Martin's answer.

* * *

Emily chose to sit beside Callista, when given the choice. At first, Callista felt that vague thrill of flattery that came when any creature - child, cat, bird - chose not to strike out but instead to curl up close by, safe in the knowledge that she could be trusted. It was certainly made stronger by the girl's lineage. Then, when the girl barely spared her a glance and focused wholly on Martin, she corrected her interpretation.

The girl didn't trust her, but she also didn't see her as much of a threat. It was the High Overseer who needed to be watched.

The car was empty except for the three of them, and they sped through the streets towards Dunwall Tower. The option of returning to Holger first had been quickly discarded at Emily's wrinkled nose and slightly-lifted chin.

"I don't like Hiram Burrows," she said as their car rounded a corner, in her high child's voice, her eyes narrowed in an attempt at cruel judgment. "I want him gone."

"It is true," Callista said, "that he's not the nicest man- but wasn't it the Pendletons who kept you?" She glanced up at Martin, quirking a brow. _How much does she suspect_?

"I don't want to see him," Emily replied. "I don't want to see him ever again. He was rude to me, and to mother, and to Corvo."

No clear answer, then.

"And he has been chosen as the Lord Regent by Parliament," Martin said, sitting with an arm over the back of his seat. "Unfortunately, you don't have a say in that. He must remain."

"I don't have a _say_?" Emily asked, then scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. "I should have a say! He's a rotten old sneaky-"

"All of that may be true, Your Highness." At a glare, he inclined his head. "_Is_ true. But this is how the game is played."

"I'm too old for games now. They're silly child's things."

Callista looked at her thin arms, her small hands. She was still every inch a child, but Callista recognized the stubborn independence in her, the flares of barely hidden rage - and fear - in her eyes. Her mind likely felt caught between heavy, endless ice and a constantly burning fire, her body caught between boundless, nervous energy and dragging lethargy.

She'd felt it herself, when her family had begun to die - and she hadn't had to see them murdered.

"When I get home," Emily continued, "I will walk in the door, and I will look nasty Hiram Burrows in the eye, and I will tell him to _kneel_. And I will order the soldiers to go to Pendleton Hall, or- or wherever those horrible twins are, and I'll have them dragged to my feet in _chains_."

Martin held up a placating hand, and glanced to Callista with a clear request for help.

Callista turned in her seat. "You have your soldiers - us. We will take care of everything for you. You deserve rest, first, in a safe place. A large room, new clothing. Make Burrows wait until you allow him to see you - if he wasn't already bald, he would worry his scalp clean in the meantime."

"I don't want to wait," Emily returned, glowering. "I've been _waiting_ for months, and mother never came back to life and Corvo never came to get me, and I'm _sick_ of waiting!"

"Understandably, Your Highness," Martin said, his tone soothing save for the slight uptick of nervousness. Beneath them, the car shuddered and the tone of its rattling along the rails shifted.

They were on the bridge to the Tower.

Callista worried at her lip, looking at the small Empress. She had spent her adult life learning to instruct and guide children, and she had spent her _whole_ life learning to handle grief and the accompanying anger and impulsiveness, so why couldn't she come up with the correct solution here?

There simply wasn't enough time. The girl would never listen to a woman with a modicum of power whom she'd never met before.

"Let us take care of the Lords Pendleton, my lady," Callista said at last as the car jolted to a halt. "Let us prove that you can trust us. The army may be paid off, you understand."

Emily bowed her head.

"They're _all_ wretched, aren't they," she whispered. "They all hate me. Mother said they loved her, and they loved me, but now she's dead and they're just a wretched pit of vipers, aren't they?"

Martin hummed low in his throat. "Many of them, yes. But do not fear, Your Highness- many know better than to turn against you. They _did_ love your mother, and they _do_ love you, and what you represent. You have numerous enemies, but they are countable, and therefore, they are vulnerable."

"I don't trust you," Emily said, grinding her heel into the floor of the car.

"I wouldn't ask it of you," Martin said. "Not yet. But I will endeavor to earn it from you. The Abbey is yours, to the man."

"... As it should be," Emily said, and lifted her head as the car door unlatched and opened.

They were met by an honor guard of the City Watch, several army and navy officials, and Hiram Burrows. They must all have heard about the raid, and some knew enough to be waiting for a return. Perhaps news had raced ahead of their car. It was an oddly mismatched group, and it spoke highly of who Burrows kept company with. Many of the Watch wore expressions of relief or wonder or slight nerves, while the military were wary, but highly controlled. Burrows bowed as Emily stepped from the car, and inclined his head with solemn dignity.

Martin stepped out behind Emily, and Callista joined him.

"My Empress," Burrows said, straightening up with another incline of his head. "I am relieved to see you safe again."

Emily said nothing.

"Your Excellency," Martin said, stepping forward to the girl's side. "We have ascertained who kept Lady Kaldwin in bondage these long months. My men are primed to move against the traitors."

Callista watched the tightening of the muscles around Burrows' mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. She watched the subtle twitch of his fingers before he folded both hands behind his back. "Am I correct," he said, slowly, "that she was found at the Golden Cat?"

"You are," Martin said, voice deep and grave. "A deplorable place to keep a child of any sort, let alone the Empress of Dunwall."

Burrows looked sharply to the Watchmen. "Have you any explanation as to why all the officers stationed at that establishment never reported a small girl?"

"They kept me locked in a room," Emily said, sharply. "I want their heads, Royal Spymaster."

He flinched, but hid it in a smooth step forward, then sank to one knee. "Anything, my Empress. I am to be your protector and your right hand. Tell me who it was who kept you captive."

"Men in whaling masks kidnapped me on the day my mother was murdered," Emily said, hands fisted at her sides. She looked straight at Burrows, never wavering. "They used dark magic. They kept me for several days in an abandoned apartment. And then they handed me over to two men in a railcar."

"Did you get a look at their faces?" Burrows asked, feigning rapt attention. Callista could see the calculations moving within his skull. How much did she know? Would she risk accusing him? Would she proclaim Corvo's innocence?

Callista couldn't answer those questions, either, and it left her with a deep unease.

"They were lords Morgan and Custis Pendleton, and they were cruel and traitorous, and I want their heads."

Emily's eyes bored into Burrows' face, her lower lip trembling only slightly, her fists tight enough to make the tendons stand out on the backs of her hands. But if she knew Burrows was involved in her mother's death, she had the strength to stay silent about it.

Callista's attention moved again to Burrows. He rose, his long, narrow limbs reminding her of a wading bird. His expression was grave and still, and he frowned, considering the accusation.

"Then you shall have them," he said at last. "We will go at once to arrest them, and put them before a tribunal. They will answer for whatever part they played in Attano's plot."

_Your story's slipping_, Callista thought. Attano would never have handed Emily over to anybody who would have kept her in a brothel - it was unthinkable. The people would question it. Even when the twins ended up dead in a cell - conveniently, before they could stop caring about whatever bribes they were receiving or any hope of salvation, before they started talking - it wouldn't hold.

"_Corvo_ didn't kill my mother, Spymaster," Emily said, spitting the words and ignoring his new title. "It was another man. _Corvo_ tried to save us!"

Burrows' lip twitched, faintly, towards a reactive snarl. He mastered it. "There is, I am sure, much to untangle regarding what happened that day. First, though, let us finish this one. I will go to Parliament with these fine soldiers and we will arrest the Pendletons, now."

The crowd stirred. Martin stiffened. He hadn't had time to pass down orders of his own. She could feel their control over the situation slipping.

"I would accompany your raiding party," Martin said, stepping forward. "Miss Curnow, as well. As we were the ones who rescued the young Empress-"

"I will come, too," Emily interrupted. Her eyes blazed. "No more talking. Spymaster?"

"Of course," Burrows said, with another bow. "May we take your car, High Overseer? It will be a great deal faster, I imagine, then calling one of our own."

"It will only fit the four of us," Martin said. "Let me call my men-"

"There is a convoy - it's hardly fit for the Empress, though. They will meet us there."

Callista was the first into the car, and there was a moment's tense silence as Martin decided where to sit. Across from her, and she would end up with either Burrows or Emily as a companion - but next to her, and Emily was forced to sit beside the Spymaster.

He chose to sit across. Emily sat down beside Callista, as she had before, and Burrows across from her. It was a tight fit - the car had only been designed for two passengers. As the door closed them in and the electric lights brightened, she watched the two men across from her shoot each other cold looks.

The car jolted to life.

Emily showed few signs of the long day - and the long months before - wearing on her, except for her silence. She made no more pronouncements or demands, and all her energy seemed to be turned inward. What was she battling? Anger? Exhaustion and the desire to simply cry with relief at being free? Or cry in horror at being let out into a different, less caring world than the one she'd been taken from?

Surely she'd noticed the Regent's red banners on the high Tower walls, so different from her line's bright blue dyes.

"What motivated the Pendletons, do you think?" Martin asked, with all the appearances of idleness, as they approached the Parliament building. Beside him, Burrows shifted uncomfortably, his long limbs not suited to the confined space. Martin's comparatively stockier frame slotted in more comfortably, and dominated their shared seat. "It couldn't have been money."

Callista watched Burrows through her lashes while pretending to inspect her gloves. Would he confess to the Pendletons' dire financial straits? Was he the sort of liar who cleaved to the truth whenever possible?

The former Royal Spymaster should be an expert on the subject. She would devote herself to the study of his tactics.

"Blackmail would not have continued to sway them with Attano in prison, and now dead," Burrows mused. "But they are not of the political breed - they go instead where money and power is greatest. Perhaps," he said, inclining his head to Emily, "they meant to bring you forward themselves at a later date, trusting or hoping that they could sway you to not implicating them. To be the rescuers of the Empress would have been a great social and political boon."

His gaze flicked to Martin.

Martin adjusted his cuff.

"Or perhaps Attano always intended to steal you back from them," Martin offered.

"Corvo didn't have me kidnapped," Emily said, looking away. "... But he did hate them."

"A bit elaborate for a plot to get the Pendletons out of power, but perhaps-"

"This is hardly the time, gentlemen," Callista said, placing a hand on Emily's forearm as the girl threatened to rise from her seat. "Her Highness is very brave and strong, but she escaped her captors only today. Let us put aside theories until we have them in custody."

Emily jerked her arm away. "Do _not_ touch me," she hissed.

Callista pulled back, inhaling sharply.

"Miss Curnow is correct," Burrows said, slowly. "My apologies, Your Highness."

"You're all wrong, anyway. Because Corvo didn't have me kidnapped." She stared them down. Martin looked away. Burrows took a moment longer, then he, too, turned from her.

The car was silent until it slowed to a halt a few minutes later. Outside, they could hear a few barked orders; the guards had arrived before them, as Burrows had promised. When the doors opened, they stepped out into the sunlight and were enfolded by a squad of officers of the Upper Watch and two army men. Parliament stood before them, and with only a quick pronouncement from Burrows, they were climbing the steps.

The lords were on recess, and the guards climbed quickly to the hall where the Pendleton offices stood. Callista kept an eye out for Treavor, but couldn't see his pallid form anywhere in the crowd that was clustered around the doors in question, pressing into the space that the Pendleton's clerk would have usually occupied. Callista heard Martin curse softly.

"What's this!" Burrows shouted as their contingent met the onlookers, but before he could demand that the crowd part, Emily had slipped away. She pushed through the forest of bodies and to the door, and just as Callista lost sight of her, she heard her cry out,

"Open this door!"

One of the soldiers who had been able to push through to the front raised a hand.

"Out of the way, on orders from the Lord Regent and Her Highness, Emily Kaldwin!"

His voice boomed and the hall seemed to ripple, the onlookers' whispers turning more frantic. _They_ hadn't heard yet. There had been no public announcements. The sea parted, and Callista pushed her way with Martin to the doorway, cursing the sling she still wore. The fine wooden door was shut tight.

"On the order of the Empress, open this door!" the soldier called.

There was no answer.

Burrows joined Martin with a snarl. "There were two gunshots heard five minutes before we arrived - _that's_ why the crowd is here. Get those doors open!" he shouted.

Emily moved out of the way of the soldier, and watched as he tried the latch. It was locked. Her expression hardened. She stood motionless as he tried the door, first with his boot, then with his shoulder. Callista saw the anger building in her again, but before it could surface, the soldier leveled his pistol at the door just beside the lock, and fired. Callista's ears rang and Emily flinched, and by the time both had recovered, the lock had been broken open.

The door swung open.

Martin swore again and pushed into the room.

One of the fine chairs had been overturned. A cigar, only recently burned out, had rolled halfway across the floor from one of the great desks, its path ending in a pool of blood and brain matter already growing sticky. One of the twins was sprawled across the floor, his life ended by a single shot to the temple, but preceded by a long struggle, evidenced by fallen books, scuffed furniture, and his rumpled furniture where he had been grabbed, dragged, held.

The other twin sat behind his desk, his head fallen forward and half-removed by a shot through the roof of his mouth.

Emily walked into the room and crossed the rug until her shoes nearly touched the pool of blood. She stared down at the lifeless body, its eyes already clouding, its features slackened in death. The room was silent as she crouched beside the body and reached out one hand, as if to close the eyes. Her fingers touched his cheek, then dropped to his cravat.

Callista watched, frozen, as the small Empress tore his cravat pin loose, inspected it, then stood up. Emily's jaw was tightly clenched as she crossed to the second twin, and she stood across the desk from him, peering at his broken skull, the matted hair and blood and bone.

Burrows pushed past Callista. "This is- this is not something you should have to see, Your Highness," he said, reaching for her.

Emily shrugged him off.

"Did they kill themselves?" she asked.

One of the soldiers opened his mouth, but Martin held up a hand. "The one at his desk- was that Custis?- yes, he did. Undoubtedly. As for Morgan... it would appear there was a struggle."

Burrows narrowed his eyes. "This is not suitable conversation."

"I want to know how they died," Emily said. "I want to see it and understand how this was taken away from me, too."

"They likely received news that the Golden Cat had been raided," Martin said, ignoring Burrows. "Perhaps they already had agreed it was best to end things themselves before they were arrested, if the day ever came, or maybe they decided in the moment. One was willing to go through with it. The other... apparently wasn't.

"But twins are often particular of how and when they die. I've heard before that they can't stand to live if their counterpart dies. Perhaps Lord Custis took it into his own hands to put Lord Morgan out of his suffering, then ended his own."

Emily's face contorted into something inhuman, and she drew back her arm, then pitched the cravat pin into the wreckage of Custis's head. "It was _my_ right to have them hanged," she whispered. "They are traitors to the Empire, and to _me_."

"Yes, Your Highness," Burrows said, reaching out with placating hands. "But we need to allow their bodies to be gathered up and-"

"What do you do with plague victims?" Emily asked, turning to face him. "When they're dead. Do you burn them? I heard an announcement that the- the-"

"Crematoria," Martin supplied.

"That the crematoria can't keep up. So where do you put them?"

"In- Rudshore, Your Highness," Burrows stammered. "The district is flooded and uninhabitable, and has been sealed off. But the Pendletons have a family mausoleum."

"Dump them in Rudshore," Emily said.

"Your Highness, the other nobles will-"

"_Dump them in Rudshore_. They're traitors. They don't deserve a funeral."

"I agree," Martin said. "Though I would like to state that a watery grave is, while more dangerous to the spirit, not entirely dishonorable."

Callista waited for Emily's objections, her arguments, but instead the girl looked at Martin thoughtfully, took several breaths, then asked, "Then what would you suggest?"

"Feed them to the rats, Your Highness," he said, bowing. "Or leave them to rot in the Royal Interrogator's pits."

Burrows opened his mouth to protest, but Emily was grinning, a feral, gleeful grin, and it stopped the Regent cold.

He swallowed.

"Well, we can't encourage the rat population," he said. "So the Royal Interrogator it is. If it's alright with you, Your Highness, to have such heinous traitors under your roof?"

"Show me where you put their bodies," Emily said, "so I can be sure it's to my liking."

Burrows smoothed down the front of his coat. "... Of course, Your Highness."

Emily turned, at last, from the bodies. "I'd like to go home now."

* * *

They left her in the Tower.

Callista looked back over her shoulder no fewer than five times on the way out to the car that would take them back to Holger. It felt wrong, to abandon her there, but she'd refused to stay at the Abbey. Burrows had hovered nearby, and it had been impossible to press her. Whatever happened now happened outside of their direct control, and the thought made her stomach clench and her heart stammer.

Martin settled into the car and held out a hand. She ignored it and climbed into the car on her own, sitting on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped between her knees. The doors closed, and the lights flickered on.

"A drink?" he asked, hand drifting to the compartment.

"Not right now."

The car smelled like Burrows' cologne and the sickly-sweet perfume that must have been clinging to Emily.

Martin opened the compartment and withdrew a cigar. He handled it gingerly, inspecting it, meditating upon it.

"It was a good maneuver," he said at last.

"Rescuing the heir?"

"Killing off the twins," he said. "I would wager that neither of them died by their own hand, or their brother's."

She scowled. "He's fast to act."

"He is. He may be paranoid, but he's hardly foolish." Martin sighed. "This is bold, though. The twins' death will mean that Treavor takes their seats in parliament, and their votes. He has to know that Treavor is not wholly loyal."

"So the bribes will begin," she said. "And now that a Kaldwin is back on the throne, how loyal do you thinkTreavor will be to _us_?"

"Well, we went behind his back, and he lost out on all the glory and gained only an association with treason." Martin frowned, then reached into the compartment for the small metal punch and box of matches. "It's undoubtedly a very good thing that we rescued the heir. She does not trust Burrows, but she is... amenable to us, at least to some extent. And with your prior experience as a governess, perhaps we could move to install you in her court. A liaison to the Abbey, and a maternal figure for her. You could shelter her."

"No."

Martin paused, inches away from snipping the end from his cigar. "No?"

"It would never work. Burrows wouldn't let me that close to her - and I am no longer governess material, I'm afraid."

She sat back, looking up at the narrow window at the top of the door. Red brick sped by.

"It's only been a few months," Martin said, and she listened for the faint snip of the punch. It never came. Instead, she heard the soft sounds of Martin putting the whole arrangement away.

Callista said nothing.

What she'd felt at the girl's side was- unsettling. Upsetting. She'd felt distant, and confused, and frozen.

Martin's uniform rustled as he shifted, pushing himself over to her seat, straight in her gaze. He leaned close, good hand settling on her knee. His voice dropped in pitch as he said, "If this is about our indulgences-"

"It's not," she said. "It has everything to do with who I've become. The woman who is your assistant is not a good choice to raise an Empress, even if that's what you want of her." She shook her head, peeling his hand from her knee. "The _Miss Callista_ of the schoolroom couldn't survive in your world."

Martin withdrew his hand and sat back, looking her over. Callista turned her attention from him. His hand on her knee had made her heart flutter, but deep, deep under her frustration. There was reordering to be done in how she understood the person she saw in the mirror.

The woman who could forge the High Overseer's signature, shoot a man, watch torture and murder and think first and foremost about its effects on her future and not on the turning of her stomach- she was a very different woman than the girl who had begun to teach because it was the only acceptable option presented to her. Soon, she would be unrecognizable.

Powerful, yes, but unrecognizable.

She rolled the thought about her mind.

"What would you say to being her tutor in Abbey matters only?" Martin asked, voice soft. "I want you near her. You may not be a governess anymore, but you're far more suited to winning her loyalty and dependence than _I_ am."

"I don't know enough."

"Then study."

"She wants _your_ power," Callista countered, shaking her head. "She wants to have you as her weapon. She doesn't want comfort. Comfort would mean admitting she was scared, and admitting she was scared would mean admitting she was weak. She won't, if she can help it."

Martin chuckled. "You may not be a governess, but you still understand her child's mind."

Callista's smile was small and grim.

The car pulled up to Holger, and the doors opened. She stepped out first, Martin following a few moments after.

Callista looked towards Clavering. "Do you need anything else this afternoon?"

Martin shrugged. "Time to think. Time to observe. The announcements should be going out soon. But I want you here, Miss Curnow. I need your talents of perception."

"I'll be in the library, then," she said, and separated from him. Her hands trembled faintly. The smells of the whorehouse clung to her, as did the metallic stink of blood that had soaked into her clothing at Parliament. The Lords Pendleton were dead, and it _had_ been a clever maneuver. The public, not knowing of Burrows' involvement, would see the apparent suicide as shame and terror that they had been found out. It would make for a good narrative. Meanwhile, it ensured that the twins didn't turn on their benefactor the moment they were asked to do more for him than idle about a brothel for months on end.

Burrows was very clever indeed. Emily did not have a chance of speaking out against him, not while she was so young and he controlled every aspect of her state. There was nobody alive to verify her story, except for Martin, and Martin would never risk it. Which meant- what?

They worked for power within the framework Burrows provided for them?

It felt- anticlimactic. They were hardly the heroes she had imagined them being. The city was still riddled with plague, the blockade wouldn't lift, and the only difference was that maybe the people would have a little hope restored, while a girl rotted away in a Tower.

She found herself a small desk in the library, on the upper floor, and took up a biography of High Overseer Rhye Mattson. It was, of course, a completely authorized biography, and so there were only a few hints to the reality of the man. A sentence here, an anecdote there that was clearly exaggerated to a specific end- but the focus on another life, even one as quietly brutal as Mattson's, gave her a bit of breathing room. Here was the man who had formed the Trials of Aptitude, and here, in the pages, was a sanitized description of just what went on there. Tales of boys taken from their beds in the middle of the night reworked to emphasize their selection, their honor, their uniqueness. And there, as the story continued, was the quiet abandonment of the unique, until all that remained were obedient soldiers, highly crafted, highly dangerous, and highly uniform.

Martin had bypassed all of that, somehow. There was a proscription in the book that all Overseers be so recruited, and yet Martin had never gone through the thinly-veiled horrors that all his fellows had. She wondered if that made him more or less dangerous.

His identity hadn't been beaten out of him, but he'd also had fewer chances to truly draw upon the brutality and certainty of his order.

She was musing on how Campbell had survived the Trials when she heard footsteps. Lifting her head, she saw a masked Overseer approaching her. He held a letter in a thick envelope.

"A message for you, Miss Curnow," he said, setting it on the desk.

"From who?" she asked, not reaching for it.

"Unknown, Miss Curnow."

His voice sounded familiar. Windham? But it was so difficult to guess, with all the identical masks, the similar builds. Still, the way he saluted her before leaving implied that he was at least on Martin's payroll.

She took the envelope. It had not been opened, but that meant little; the contents could have been removed from an original envelope, and placed into this new one. The handwriting on the front was unfamiliar.

The envelope was made of heavy, oil-coated paper, the better to travel. It took a bit of force to force the paper open. Inside were several sheets of paper of varying weights and varying degrees of damage.

She glanced around, then spread them carefully over her desk.

The pages were coded. It was either that, or they were written in gibberish, and the cost of sending such a letter seemed to preclude that. She ran her fingers over the paper. Better to work this out in her apartment, or in Martin's office- and yet she couldn't move.

There, the curve of an O- and there, the sharp angles of an M-

It was Geoff's handwriting. Masked, but not well enough.

Her hands trembled. She looked around again, this time with more frantic energy, but she was alone. She read over the pages again, and again, the patterns of nonsense dancing fast in her head, threatening to burn up entirely. But the code was far simpler than Campbell's, and with a few deep breaths, she'd already found the lynchpin of it all.

She dared not write out a translation, but the words unfolded, haltingly, horribly, in her mind:

_My dearest Callista,_

_I am safe. I understand that sending this letter might make me considerably less so, and that this letter may never reach you at all, but for all my discipline I couldn't keep from writing you. Word has reached me that Teague Martin is now High Overseer, and I hope that, if you have not gone to him yet, you go to him soon. He is not a good man, or even an honest man, but he is a powerful man who I believe will honor his debt to me._

_Do not ask too much of him, or grow too close; his power is dangerous, and he is the type of man who consumes all those in his vicinity. But, I implore you, use him to your advantage. Have him give you a letter that saves you from eviction, and have him give you enough medicine to survive the plague. Find someplace safe, some__one_ _safe, and endeavor to be as quiet and small as you can._

_If any harm has come to you following my treason, I am the saddest man alive. I did what I had to do, but it was a rash act, a violent act, and I am not proud of it. I only hope I have not struck a blow against Dunwall so mighty that it shakes the city's foundation._

_Campbell was a bastard. Let his death be a blessing, not a curse._

_I think every day and night of your safety. It has always been my highest goal to guard you, and to give you as best a life as could be asked for in a city like Dunwall, in a world like ours. If I could be there, I would._

_I wish I could enclose names of men you could trust, but I am at a loss. Here, then, are names of men you may wish to approach, but please do so with caution._

_Reginald Black._

_Farley Havelock._

_Darion Medford._

_Percy Bly._

_If you can, I would advise that you continue to seek jobs with the middle nobility. They will be taking their children from the city soon, as the high nobility did last month. I know my acts will sour many of those relationships, but perhaps it will serve you in good stead in others._

_If you can, get out of the city._

_All my love,_

_Your uncle Geoff._

Callista touched the list of names. The first two she recognized, of course, and her stomach soured. Her uncle's ability to read men seemed-

Slightly off, at best.

Farley was useful, to be sure, but his debt to Geoff didn't go so far as Geoff maybe believed. Without her connections to Martin, he wouldn't have let her stay more than a night, and maybe wouldn't have defended her from the Overseers who came from her. And Watchman Black had obviously shifted his loyalties at the first opportunity. She remembered clearly his cruelty the day he had come to seize her uncle's apartment.

Envious, covetous men, both of them. As was Martin. Really, one was no better than the others.

Her thumb ran over the words, over parts where water or drink or tears had smudged the ink, and sighed. This was dangerous. It was also very like him. She had no reason to believe this wasn't from her uncle, which meant he was alive - and foolish.

She had to know who had delivered the letter, and where from, but he was long gone. So she gathered the pages up, tucked them back into the envelope, and made her way to Martin's office.

Business first. The aching, yawning pit of her heart could be dealt with later.

* * *

Martin poured her a glass of whiskey without asking, and didn't say a word until they were seated on the couches by the great windows. He held out his hand, and she passed over the envelope. She watched, knuckles white as she gripped her glass, as he paged through the letter, gaze flicking over the coded words.

"And you're sure this is from him?" Martin asked, before taking a long drink from his glass. He hissed as it went down, and a sniff at her tumbler told her why.

The stuff was kerosene.

She looked over at the crystal decanter it was in, dubiously. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm quite sure. I didn't think to get the name of the man who delivered it, though."

"But he's one of ours."

"Yes. How do you..." She frowned, looking back to him. "How do you tell them apart?"

"I've seen most of them without their masks," he said, shrugging. "And there are certain distinct differences in their builds and voices, and their posture, though of course that's minimized by their training."

"I think it was Windham," she said, "who delivered it, but I can't be certain."

"I could ask."

"Quietly, I think," she said, swirling the contents of her glass. "But only if he delivered it, not where it came from."

Martin took another sip of his whiskey. "Oh?"

"I think we can both appreciate how astounding stupid it was of him to send me a letter," she said, and knocked back half the glass at once.

It was crude and felt like fire punching into the soft tissue of her palate and throat as it went down. It was the sort of whiskey her uncle had never offered her, the kind he kept for bad nights after work, and she found that comforting even as the memory made her ineffably sad and angry. He could die for sending her the letter, after all, and probably would. Nobody was so good at sending messages that it couldn't be traced back to the sender.

Not even her. A response was out of the question, even if she'd known how to find him.

She looked over at Martin, who sat with his cheek pillowed on the fist of his good arm. "It's from Caulkenny," he said. "The whiskey. It's what I drank growing up. I don't know when they started exporting it, or why anybody started buying it, but it's-"

"Familiar," she said.

He nodded. "Good for days you want to break a man's neck, or shout until somebody shoves a knife in your back to stop you."

She frowned. "Your thoughts are dark."

"They often are." He tossed the envelope and pages back onto the table between them. "I'll inquire to Windham. He's a safe man to talk to, at least. We can hope that whatever series of messengers your uncle used, that he picked them carefully. If he did, it might be safe enough to trace back to him, if you wanted to send a response."

"I said no." She put her glass down. "And don't you dare make the decision for me."

Martin blinked, then set his own glass down. "I wouldn't."

"You nearly decided to send me to the Tower today," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It affected you that much?"

She stood up, and went to the window of his office.

Behind her, she heard him chuckle.

"I thought," he said, and she heard him stand, "that I made clear last night that you're terrifyingly far from being my pawn, Miss Curnow." He approached her, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of turning to watch. He settled his good hand on the window sill by her hip, caging her in with his arm and chest. He never touched her.

"And I thought," he continued, voice lowering, "that I made clear that ignoring that fact has only made me more erratic. I want very much to be able to control everybody's every move- but I can't control yours, and I don't want to."

"Unless I kneel and ask you to."

"In limited circumstances, yes," he murmured, breath ghosting over her ear.

She closed her eyes, letting the shiver that went through her pass unimpeded down her spine.

"I can see," he continued, "that you're very tense. I've arranged something that might help take your mind off our various distresses."

"People will notice if I go up to your rooms three times in two days," she cautioned, but her voice sounded thick, vaguely addled. Her belly was twisting itself in knots and lighting its furnaces. Her cheeks were stained red, visible even in the slight reflection from the window.

"We're not going to my rooms."

"Or the Cat more than once in a day."

His laugh was sharp and surprised, and she turned at last to see him pulling away slightly, grinning. "Not the Cat, either," he said, then held out his hand. "Somewhere quite proper where nobody can question why we're both there. How about that?"

Callista eyed him. "I'm not getting any more hints?"

Martin considered, his face going through several exaggerated expressions. "Oh- very well. Expect a dash of whale oil."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Kaldwin Bridge was grand and gleaming in the afternoon sun, but it didn't lead to the docks or the slaughterhouses, and Callista frowned as they rattled over it. Martin merely looked calm as he flipped through Campbell's journal, noting down a few new translations.

The letter from Geoff sat just above her breast, tucked inside her uniform jacket. It felt heavy. She should have burned it before they left Martin's office, but she hadn't been able to bring herself over to the hearth, let alone light the flame and tend it until it was hot enough. No, she'd take care of it later that night, and until then she would guard its secrets.

If Martin had been able to decode the letter's contents, he wasn't showing it.

They left the bridge behind and passed through streets that seemed to grow narrower, if the sound of wind passing by the sides of the car was anything to go from. She was growing used to traveling by railcar, and was learning the slight changes in sound that signified different rails, different neighborhoods, different weather.

They slowed once for a checkpoint, and she heard something new; a faint crackling, followed by the bleat of an alarm, twice, deep in register.

Martin looked up. "Ah- he's got it up and running, then."

"What is it?"

"A new security measure. Burrows has been playing this close to his chest, but when I spoke to our host earlier today - shortly after we returned to Holger - he was quite open with his projects. It's an electrified field, powered by whale oil, that can be calibrated to let certain people through and vaporize others on contact."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's-"

"Going to be very useful to Burrows. Supposedly, it's to keep people to their districts in order to slow or stop the spread of the plague."

"But if there are ever riots-"

"Exactly." Martin's smile was grim. "And they are purely a state-run matter. I have no influence on how they're calibrated."

"It's related, then, to that _security measure_ at the Tower?" She tried to think back, though her memories of the day remained foggy. _Turns a man to ash_. She'd thought of funerals. Cremation.

"Precisely. In fact, I think it was the same item, just on a smaller scale. He alluded today to the next phase of experiments, though. These are structured as gates, but he wants to build a variant more similar to a turret, that can stand alone and attack in all directions."

Callista shivered.

"I hardly think things are bad enough for that yet, though. If Burrows installs them anyway, it might be good for us."

"The people will hate it," Callista agreed. "Public support will fall."

"Burrows may claim not to care about public support, and he may think that he's protected himself against rioters, but he hasn't seen a city in rebellion before."

The car began to move again, and Callista fought the urge to turn in her seat, as if she could catch a glimpse of the terrible gate behind her. This would make travel even more difficult. Getting to the pub would be almost impossible. It would be best, then, to get word to Havelock.

If it was still profitable to keep him allied.

The car slowed to a halt, and the doors unlatched. Callista stepped out first, then blinked and turned in a slow circle. She'd never been in this district before, and she stared up at the tall buildings, many of which had larger upper levels that jutted out above the street. When she finished her circle, she found herself looking up at a metal-clad building, covered in heavy shutters, with officers of the Watch posted at every entrance and balcony.

Martin was already halfway to the door.

She caught up with a few quick steps, and watched as he greeted the posted officer and introduced them both. The door was opened without issue, and they stepped into a gloriously-lit building that was a strange mix of bizarre clutter and open opulence. It was a retrofitted warehouse, that much was clear, but there were fine flowers in fragile vases set on expensive tables just beside large boxes. Strange noises came from all corners.

Martin exchanged a few quick words with the guard, and then led the way to a brilliantly-lit section of sunken floor, which had several pillars of marble, and a few canvases. A Tyvian man with a heavy beard stood at one of them, considering it. He glanced over at them only momentarily.

"Miss Curnow, I present Anton Sokolov, Royal Physician," Martin said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Sokolov, this is my assistant."

He snorted. "And what will she do, hold my paints while I do your portrait?"

Callista flushed faintly, turning her attention to other parts of the room. She could see stairs leading up, and glass windows to a suspended second floor. Through the windows she could see books and greater finery. The whole building seemed like a strange inside-out warren. It made her uncomfortable in ways she couldn't name.

"I was rather hoping, actually, that you'd consent to paint _her_ portrait," Martin said.

Callista's attention snapped back to the two men.

_This_ was the surprise?

"I hardly think-" Callista was saying, when Sokolov said,

"Very well. It hardly matters, neither will take very long."

And he set down the palette he was holding and walked away.

Martin touched her elbow, lightly. "This is a great honor," he murmured. "He has to paint my portrait as a matter of civic duty, but beyond that... it can be difficult to convince him to let you sit for him."

"Then why-"

"I've offered him access to some of the heretical materials we've recovered in recent months. For my portrait, originally, to ensure it was- flattering. Given the now indefinite delay in getting new artifacts from Pandyssia via the Pendleton ships, it appears to have some sway," Martin said. "And perhaps because he wants to look at you a little more closely. He's a dog, Miss Curnow."

His eyes sparkled just a little.

"Well," she said, "I suppose- it wouldn't hurt to get to know the man Burrows has building his defenses."

"Not at all."

Sokolov returned a few minutes later with an assortment of pigments in jars, kept in a very fine case that had seen better days. Callista suspected it didn't usually hold paints, and instead held samples of- whatever it was that natural philosophers spent their days studying.

Whale oil, perhaps.

"Upstairs," he said. "And she can shed the sling she's not really using." Then he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs up to the enclosed second floor.

Callista looked at Martin, who shrugged his good shoulder. She took a deep breath, then followed, sliding her arm from the sling and folding it up.

Sokolov led them to what looked like a dining room, which had a row of books against one wall. He had already set up an easel and canvas facing that wall, and Callista looked at it appraisingly.

It would do well enough, she supposed.

Martin hummed low in his throat behind her, and she turned to find him rubbing at his jaw with his good hand. "Maybe not the books. She is more than a research fellow, doctor. As am I, for that matter."

"Yes? Then what would you have me do?" Sokolov asked, setting his case down on the nearby table and beginning to extract pigments. "Paint her in a boudoir? I don't have one of those here."

Callista flushed.

"No, no, I was thinking more..." He frowned. "The entrance hall at Holger would suit her more, for sure."

"It has horrible lighting. I refuse to work there." He sniffed. "I thought I made that quite clear today during my visit."

"Yes, you did," Martin said, smiling thinly. He turned about, slowly.

The books, Callista thought, were fine, though they were a bit... uninspired, she supposed. She looked around as well. Her eye caught the elements of the old warehouse, barely visible out one of the windows.

"Where we began was fine enough," she said, slowly. "Perhaps positioned so that the old machinery is within view."

Sokolov continued setting up. "Nonsensical."

"Tell me, what was the warehouse used for? Before?"

"Secondary processing of whale oil. Decanting, mostly," Sokolov said.

"Then I'd like to have the machinery for my backdrop, doctor," she said.

He looked up at her at last.

"I have a fondness," she said, "for the whaling industry. And the High Overseer is right - the books hardly suit me."

"The lighting down there is harsh, and will not be flattering," Sokolov said. "I can adjust the floodlights, but only so much. You won't like it."

"I'd rather it be accurate than flattering," she said.

He snorted, then returned his paint pots to their case. He worked quickly, his fingers nimble and stained with ink. "An interesting pet you've got there, High Overseer. A little more unique than I gave the both of you credit for."

Martin didn't respon. Callista tugged at the red fabric she'd tucked into her belt that day, nervously. It was a new sash, embroidered with the Abbey's symbol - far more proper than a scrap of cloth.

"Well, downstairs it is. Get yourselves drinks, I'll let you know when I'm set up," Sokolov said, then took up his paint case and left without the canvas. He likely had several more.

Martin went to the sideboard, in search of a bottle or a decanter, and found none. He frowned at it. "I'm not sure," he said, "if this is an intentional slight or just forgetfulness. The vagaries of genius are irritating, to be sure." He glanced over his shoulder. "I would have liked for his portrait to do you justice, you know. The lighting-"

"He'll make the lighting work if he wants to. If he doesn't, even the finest setting wouldn't help."

He inclined his head. "... True."

Martin considered her, then crossed the space between them and reached for the bit of fabric at her waist. He tugged it loose. "I wonder," he said as he held it first against her throat, then by her upper arm, "if I could introduce red into your uniform more permanently. The black already sets you apart from my men, but doesn't bring you any closer to _me_."

"Do it slowly, if you do," she said, and reached for the fabric. She tucked it back beneath her belt, as before, except for a small slash of red peeking out from above the leather. "It'll just mark me as more of a target."

He canted his head. "Are you afraid?"

"Always," she said.

Martin took a step back, considering the length of her. "I hope it isn't crushing. More of a background noise. That's the best we can hope for, at any rate."

_Background noise_. Yes, that was- the best way to describe it. Constant, unceasing, but something she could live with all the same.

There was a knock at the door. A maid looked into the room, curtseyed quickly, and said, "He'll see you downstairs now." Then she was off like a shot, into the hallways that served the dining room, no doubt connecting it to the kitchen.

Martin gestured to the stairs. "Shall we?"

* * *

"She looks surprisingly like a rodent," Sokolov commented.

Callista flushed, and did her best not to move under his dispassionate inspection.

"Very thematic, these days," he continued as he sketched her likeness onto the canvas. "Curnow, Curnow- I met your uncle a few times, you know. I think he mentioned you were his only relative?"

She cleared her throat. "That is correct."

"Plague rats, yes," Sokolov said, stepping back slightly. He looked between the canvas and his subject. "A large family, first, like rats have, but it's all been taken away. Ever heard of the idea of a death curse, Miss Curnow?"

"It came to mind frequently, when I was a child," she said, feeling her jaw tense, her palms grow sweaty in her gloves. "But I've since come to believe it's all simply bad luck. High death tolls within families aren't unusual these days."

"_These_ days, no," Sokolov said, and she waited for him to comment on the timing of the plague, press her on how many of her family had died from it. Instead, he simply shrugged and set down his pencil, reaching instead for his brush. "What are the rations of elixir like at the Abbey? Burrows has been handling distribution, you know."

"They're adequate," Martin said. "We distribute it in the barracks three times a day."

"The City Watch, I understand, are getting four."

Martin frowned. He met Callista's eyes and quirked a brow, and Callista made a mental note to look into the disparity - if it was real.

"And are you taking your doses regularly, High Overseer?"

"I'm hardly out in the streets, and never in contact with the Weepers," Martin said.

"Fool." Sokolov began painting, if the motions of his body and the sound of brush on canvas was any indication. Callista wondered if she was free to move, now, but stayed still.

"Our schedules," Callista offered, "make it difficult to remember to take the elixir regularly. Some days we have a single ration, others the full three. It varies."

"That's the worst thing you could be doing, short of not taking any at all," Sokolov said, scowling at the canvas. "Your defenses vary wildly now, throughout the day. It makes you both vulnerable. And the plague is only spreading. The rats are carrying it. They'll get in everywhere, given time. Good breeders, violent fighters."

"Thank you for the advice," Martin said. Callista watched him touch his jaw- then his throat, taking his pulse.

Sokolov set down his brush, considering the canvas. Then he turned to Martin.

"Let me look at your shoulder, High Overseer."

Martin froze, just for a second. "I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, smoothly, hand dropping from his neck.

"I need a break from painting. You have severely reduced mobility in your shoulder, you had your assistant wearing a sling she didn't need - so as to keep it on hand for you? - and somebody else is going to notice soon, if they haven't already. Given that the last time I saw you, before today, that wasn't the case-"

"It's been taken care of."

His eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged. "Very well."

Callista frowned. Sokolov was a better physician than she was, by far, and her patch-up job on Martin's shoulder surely couldn't be holding well. "It hasn't," she said.

Martin glared at her.

"It hasn't been taken care of, or not well."

"It's a very private matter," Martin gritted out.

"A severe injury can lower the body's ability to keep out the plague," Sokolov said, "but if a man doesn't want assistance, I can't force him."

The impulse to order Martin to take off his jacket was high, despite the knowledge that he wouldn't appreciate her- overbearance. She bit at her lip.

Martin shifted his glower to Sokolov- then shrugged, expression melting away. "I'd appreciate it if you showed Miss Curnow how to attend to my recovery, then."

Sokolov grunted in approval, then set about closing up his paints. Callista circled around the canvas as Sokolov called out a request for water and tools to be brought upstairs to the library they had visited earlier. The sketch was loose and fine, and he'd begun painting not over it, but beside it. Perhaps testing colors? She held up her hand to what looked like a skintone, and found it oddly blue.

She looked away to find Sokolov already climbing the stairs. Martin hesitated at their base. She crossed to him.

"He's unsettlingly perceptive," Martin groused, "for a licentious drunkard."

Callista couldn't help her faint smile.

They climbed the steps, and she closed the door to the library after them. Martin glanced around, checking that their supplies had been brought up, and, seemingly satisfied, stripped off his jacket. She helped him, stepping up behind to ease the fabric from his shoulder.

When his chest was bare, he sat down stiffly, backwards in a chair. "Well?"

There was a clink of glass as Sokolov put down his drink. Callista noted the bottle's hiding place for future reference.

He washed his hands and then picked up a cloth, soaking it first before pressing it against the bandages that were once again blood-stained and stiff. Callista stood nearby, observing every detail as Sokolov eased the bandages up, then wetted a new rag and wiped down the skin.

"Interesting tattoo, High Overseer," Sokolov said, as he washed the damaged patch. He'd broken a few of his stitches sometime during the morning, and the flesh looked red and inflamed again. "It's been a while since I've seen a gwyllgi."

Martin stared straight ahead. "It's a wolfhound," he said, voice clipped.

"Of course," Sokolov said, setting aside the cloth he held and reaching for narrow-nosed scissors. He expertly cut each set of sutures. Martin grimaced at each tug on the thread. "Miss Curnow- your first mistake was to use sewing thread. The wool irritated the skin. I'll give you proper catgut thread for any future attempts. You've also made the stitches too long, too much thread to each one."

"I don't have much education in nursing," she said.

"Clearly." Sokolov set aside the blades and reached for what looked like flat-nosed scissors instead. He used them to grip the bits of suture and tug them out. Martin hissed and grabbed hard at the back of the chair. "Still, you did better than most. The tissue under the skin flap doesn't look like it's infected, so you must've gotten all the particulate out from under it before stitching it down. It's healing, just slowly. I'd advise wearing that sling, High Overseer, until it's completely recovered, and to cease any... _vigorous_ activity."

"I use it when it's convenient," Martin grunted.

Callista held her breath, waiting for Sokolov to ask why Martin was hiding the injury at all, but he didn't. He simply prodded at the wound with various instruments, getting a sense of where the skin had healed down already and where it was still loose. Then he set about disinfecting the area and resuturing the flap.

"This will take several weeks to heal properly," Sokolov said at last. "And your ribs a bit longer."

"There's nothing wrong with my ribs," Martin grumbled.

"Just as there's nothing wrong with your back," Sokolov replied, dryly. "Don't worry, I don't care enough about whatever mess you've found yourself in to tell anybody."

"Then why help?" Callista asked.

Sokolov paused in bandaging the patch of skin, then leaned back in his seat. "... The girl, Emily. I am of a mind that she never be left alone with Burrows. He's a good source of funding, but that's it."

Martin's expression froze, then changed. It didn't soften, but she could read relief - and interest - settling into the lines of his jaw and forehead. Sokolov's intrusion, while not forgiven, was now less of a danger.

Callista, however, kept a close eye on Sokolov long after Martin's bandages were set and his uniform was back in place, even as she stood motionless for another sitting before the canvas.

* * *

They returned to Holger just after sunset. The floodlights illuminated the bottoms of the clouds that were gathering overhead, and Callista shivered at a light, chill breeze that came from the river.

Before Martin stepped away from the car, he touched her elbow lightly. "I'd like to talk a bit more, this evening," he said, voice pitched low enough that their waiting escort would have to make obvious efforts to hear. "And I'm sure there's much to attend to inside, if you're up to it."

Callista looked up at the great building. The letter above her heart had grown no heavier, but it was still a noticeable weight. Work might relieve it. But then her thoughts went to the Wall of Light, and its imminent installation across the city, and she frowned.

"I have- things I need to see to, of my own," she said.

"Then I'll stop by your apartment tonight," Martin said, and let his hand drop.

"I'll be out for several hours."

He inclined his head to one side. "Is that a no?"

She considered. "It's a come at midnight, if you come at all," she decided on. "If it's safe at all."

He nodded. "Understood, Miss Curnow."

She thought she saw him wink before he turned and beckoned for his waiting escort. The Overseers folded themselves around him, and she watched him disappear.

Then she climbed back into the car, bound for a spot a mile from the Hound Pits, where she had any number of excuses for her visit.

* * *

The pub had blue banners and streamers hanging from every window. Some were older, faded and weather-worn, but some were bright and new, and all flew proudly even in the dim light of the streetlamps. She quickened her pace and reached the door before too many pedestrians got a look at her and her uniform. She'd only realized how much she stood out when two women had crossed the street to avoid her, casting glances at the trident sigil on her belt buckle.

Hopefully Havelock wouldn't mind her. Hopefully he wouldn't turn her away as soon as she opened the door.

She expected noise and light to wash over her as she opened the door, and she braced herself, squaring her shoulders. The latch gave beneath her hand. The door swung open.

Inside the lights were low and the room was mostly empty.

Lydia stood behind the bar, wiping down the taps. She paused, looking over Callista, then jerked her head toward the booth at the far end of the bar. Callista couldn't make out who was sitting there, and she approached slowly.

The only signs of life and conversation in the room were coming from that booth. A few steps closer and she could make out Pendleton's voice, high and strained. Then Havelock's low response. Callista exhaled, relaxing, and took the last few steps with quick authority.

"Hello, gentlemen," she said.

Pendleton glared up at her.

Havelock shifted in his seat, making room for her, but she shook her head at the offer. "I'm just here to check in. I take it you've heard the news, then, given the banners?"

"Glory to the Empire," Havelock agreed with a nod, lifting his glass a half-inch. But he wasn't smiling. "A bit unclear as to who brought her forward-"

"Us," Callista said. "And I apologize for the lack of contact. Things have- moved quickly, these last few days."

"Clearly," he said, drumming his calloused fingers on the table.

"When we discovered where Lady Emily was being kept, we judged it best kept to ourselves. Given what happened with Attano-"

Havelock's bland look turned to a snarl, and he jerked forward slightly- then relented, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Well, it's done, at least."

"Yes," Pendleton said. He looked at her, gaze vague and wandering. His cheeks were flushed with drink. "Yes, it's _done_. Did you- did you ask me to keep them at Parliament so they could- Miss Curnow-"

"No," she said. "No, though Martin suspects it was not a murder-suicide as Burrows has pronounced it."

"Well, it _wasn't_. I know them. They would've run. They would've taken the money and run. Unless somebody killed them." He glared at her.

"Martin and I had no reason to kill them," she said, smoothly, clasping her hands behind her back. "Burrows did. _You_ did. I know you're intoxicated, Lord Pendleton, but turn your anger toward the Regent, if anybody."

Pendleton swore and leaned back in his seat.

"Though," she continued, "you may have more access to the Empress than we will, in the future. You are becoming very important, Lord Pendleton."

"Shut up," he slurred.

Havelock waved him down, then pushed himself up from his seat. He gestured for Callista to precede him into the hall, and she did, keeping a careful eye on him.

He shut the door behind him.

"I don't appreciate how thoroughly you're cutting me out of all this, Callista," he said.

"We hardly have a formal alliance. Things have just- been moving so fast." She did her best to look calm, inviting. "But with Emily Kaldwin back on the throne, at least in part, you have an excuse to come before her and petition for your reinstatement. At worst, it's an opportunity for you and Martin to meet safely. At best, you get your command back."

"_At best_ is a fairy story. Burrows won't allow it."

"The Empress is strong-willed, and angry. She has been without power so long that she is asserting herself whenever possible - and Burrows is relenting and allowing her to, to a point. Make yourself less dangerous, and he may not stop her," she said.

Havelock's scowl turned pensive.

"... I heard from my uncle today," she said, voice dropping to just above a whisper. "He is well. And he made it very clear that I should trust you."

"Glad to hear he's alive," Havelock said. "Is he- in the city?"

"No. I heard from him by letter."

Havelock nodded, slowly, then beckoned for her to follow. He took the first two steps to the second floor, then looked back at her when she didn't move. "Come on. I want to check something."

"I shouldn't linger."

"Nobody's here to see you, if you do. The pub is closing at the end of the week. There's no business," he said, shaking his head. He began to climb once more. This time, Callista followed. "I thought the celebration tonight would bring people out, but the plague and the new security measures Burrows has rolled out-"

"I understand," she said.

He grunted in response.

They reached the second floor landing, and he led the way to his room, with its reinforced metal door. As he slipped the key into the lock, she heard something shift inside, then a clicking noise. She glanced to Havelock.

"Keep your eyes forward, Callista," he said. "And don't show any fear."

He pushed the door open, and Blacky stared up at her, snarling.

Callista stared right back, then dragged her gaze up. It was hard to look over the hound, especially when she began to picture how it had torn the Overseer's throat out, but the more she looked straight ahead, the softer the hound's snarling got.

"Good boy," Havelock murmured. "Now sit down."

She heard the floor creak.

"You can look at him now," Havelock said.

She looked.

His front leg was still splinted, with metal pins sticking through his skin and wrapped with bandages, and his fur was coarse and unkempt, but he was alert, focused entirely on her.

"He's taking to the house well, then?" she asked.

"Better than I'd expected," Havelock agreed. "He's mostly trained to kill other hounds, not people."

"He went for the Overseers easily."

"It's the masks. He didn't realize they were people, probably," Havelock said, chuckling. "That and there was already blood on the air. He saw one weak and bleeding, his instincts kicked in. The rest, he was protecting me, I think. And you. Hold out your hand to him."

"Thank you, no."

"He doesn't snap unless you try to touch his injury, or his stomach. Go ahead."

She inspected the hound, then held out her left hand. It shook slightly.

The hound stretched its long neck, and sniffed delicately at her glove.

Then it settled down onto the ground, looking bored.

"See, gentle as a kitten," Havelock said. "But he costs a lot to feed, and his medicines aren't cheap, either. I'm already figuring when I'll have to put down the ones still capable of fighting, but for him- he can't earn his keep."

"I see."

Havelock stepped over the hound and went to his desk, settling down in his chair. He sat back, watching her. "Your uncle- does he know what you're doing these days?"

"No. Actually, he warned me against trusting Martin at all."

Havelock nodded, slowly. "Just like him," he said. "You should take Blacky with you."

She looked back down at the hound. "I'm- not sure that's entirely wise. He's still a fighter. The Overseer hounds are trained from birth and are- very different from him."

"I'm not saying make him an Overseer hound. I'm saying _you_ take him."

"I wouldn't know how to handle him."

"You put a heavy leash on him, and a harness, and you feed him and sit with him while he sleeps. That's about the sum of it. He knows orders to sit, to stay, to attack, and to let go. Should be all you need."

She shook her head. "I really can't-"

"If Pendleton came up here and offered Blacky his hand, he'd get a growl and a warning snap. I've seen it myself. Same with Lydia, and the Cecelia girl she's got helping her. But with you, he's sleeping at your feet already. Something about jumping to your protection, even though he didn't know what he was doing, seems to have put you in a different category."

"And how do you suggest I control him around Martin? The other Overseers? Burrows?" she asked.

Havelock smiled. "Maybe you don't."

Callista looked back down at the hound. It was a shame, certainly, for the creature to be put down after it had saved her life, but she didn't trust the beast. She'd never trusted animals, and the hound's sharp teeth and long, pointed muzzle only meant _danger_ to her.

"Blacky," Havelock said. The hound lifted his head, then climbed to his feet, favoring his broken leg. "Come here."

Callista watched as he turned and limped over to Havelock's desk, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her. His small eyes glittered. His ears pricked forward, and his powerful shoulders seemed to coil and roll. He sat down at Havelock's feet, facing her. He pawed the ground, restlessly.

She took a step closer, and he settled back onto his belly.

"You try. See how he listens," Havelock said.

"He needs his rest," she said, shaking her head. She thought of Martin's back, his stitches breaking - and he didn't have metal poking through his skin.

"He's used to it. Try."

Callista looked between the two. She thought back to her uncle's letter. He'd said to trust Havelock, and Havelock, though ambitious and grasping for control, seemed to be trustworthy. If he thought the hound could protect her...

"Blacky," she said.

The hound lifted his head and looked at her, expectantly.

"Come here," she said, and pointed to the ground by her feet.

He rose with the same laborious care as before, and limped to her.

"Sit."

He sat at her feet.

She considered him. Carefully, she reached out her hand. He sniffed it only once, as if it were just a formality. Holding her breath, she settled it on top of his head.

He pressed up into her touch.

"And there we go," Havelock said. "Take him home with you."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to be trapped with him in a railcar," she said. "Or to walk him through the streets." Besides, Martin would likely be by in a few hours, and she didn't want to know what would happen if Blacky saw Martin wielding a riding crop. "... Bring him by tomorrow, on your way to petition. Early in the morning."

Havelock nodded. "You're in your uncle's place near Clavering now?"

"Yes."

"I have the exact address written down somewhere."

She rubbed behind the hound's ears, gently. "What does he need? For food?"

"As much raw meat as you can get him, and whatever table scraps you've got left over," he said. "Or whatever your Abbey kennels have. And he'll want some bedding, some scraps of fabric or something. He gets protective of what's his, so he'll want some space of his own, but I'm sure you've got enough rooms for that."

"I do, yes."

* * *

Callista sat gazing at the mantlepiece, imagining the spread of urns that should have adorned it. Behind her, the clock ticked down the minutes to midnight. Her house was empty, and she wasn't sure how much she liked it that way.

In the car, it had been a deep comfort to be alone, with its close quarters and its dim light. She'd sped, protected, through the streets. Now the apartment seemed too big by comparison, and she felt strange as her presence expanded into the new space. The day had been so busy, so tense, that once again she'd condensed herself to a few small, powerful thoughts.

She'd rescued the child empress; she'd looked at the mangled bodies of two wealthy lords; she'd had her portrait painted by the Royal Physician; she'd heard from her uncle. She let her head drop into her hands, and took several slow, deep breaths.

She'd turn Martin away, if he arrived. She needed the space. She needed to breathe.

In twelve hours, there'd be a hound sleeping in her apartment and following at her heels, and in sixteen she'd help arrange a meeting between Martin and Havelock at last. How much faster could things begin to spin? Dunwall seemed to contract in on her, narrowing to the corridor between the Regent and the Abbey and the pub, and there didn't seem to be room for her anymore. There would be no lazy afternoons with a book and warm sunlight filtering in through hazy clouds, diffusing over her small apartment floor. There would be no more fretting over simple, small things like how to avoid heavy foot traffic on her way to the shops.

She massaged at her cheeks and temples, feeling the hard bone beneath her features as if for the first time. Had they sharpened? Had they become steel? Her skin felt tight and unfamiliar, and when she thought back to the pub, to parliament, to the brothel, she felt sharp, taut, and alert. Two months ago, she could have never... she would never have been strong enough to...

There was a knock at the door. She sank deeper into the couch, letting out another deep, shuddering breath.

This time last night, she'd surrendered. Was that the only way she could carve out a little space to be not this creature of blood and politics and wickedness? By forgetting herself entirely?

Martin knocked again. It was before midnight, but she was too exhausted to consider who else it could be. She dragged herself from her seat, grimacing as her corset pressed too firmly against her back.

When she opened the door, he smiled at her.

It was a simple thing, but her resolve to send him away crumbled. Instead, she stepped back and motioned him inside. He shut the door behind him.

He wasn't wearing his uniform. His arm was in its sling, and he wore a dark, nondescript jacket over both shoulders to disguise it. It made him look confident and slightly rakish. He shrugged the jacket off and hung it up beside the door, then passed her, making his way over to the sitting room.

"You're early," she said.

"So are you." He sat down in her space, propping one leg up on the table in front of him. He was wearing nice stockings.

She was still in her uniform, rumpled and worn.

_I should tell him to leave_. But after what had happened the night before, and now that they were alone, unwatched, and without immediate duties, she felt drawn to him. Her skin prickled as if the air was charged with lightning.

She watched as he reached into his sling and pulled out a small, long wooden box that he'd had settled against his forearm.

"Can you get me a dish of water?" he asked, settling the box on his thigh.

She eyed it a moment, then nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

Returning a moment later with a shallow bowl, she found Martin with the lid of the box open, his fingers trailing over its contents. When she came close enough to set the bowl on the table, she could see that inside were a few small pots of paint.

"It's cheap stuff," he said, "but it will do well enough. Come here, sit down."

She lifted a brow, but did as he asked.

He set the box to his other side, along with a small brush, and reached for her hand. He was gentle as he tugged the glove from her fingers.

"It has been," he said, "a very long day."

"It has," she said. "I'm barely on my feet, to be honest."

"You won't need to be," he said, with a quick grin. It faded as his fingers explored her knuckles and the tendons along the back of her hand.

"What are the paints for?"

"Fun," he said. "I had the idea when Sokolov was painting your portrait." He set her hand down on his knee, spreading it flat. She held it in place as he reached for box and brush, and watched as he dipped the brush into a black ink. "Something neither of us has to think too much about, and something that won't leave you too sore to sit in the morning."

"That's- thoughtful," she said, voice catching faintly.

He brought the tip of the brush down between the tendons of her index and middle finger, and traced a light, thin line to where her fingers split. The paint was cool and the touch made her twitch. Martin's lips curled.

As she watched, he painted the Abbey's trident on her hand. He was no great artist, and his lines jumped and shook, especially when the brush tickled and she couldn't resist the urge to pull away, but it was recognizable and stark against her pale skin.

He bent down, blowing over the ink to dry it. Her fingers spasmed.

"Well?" he asked.

"It's- very strange," she said. "But nice."

Martin pushed up her sleeve another inch, and turned her hand over. But as he started a line up the inside of her wrist, as the brush touched her pulse, her hand balled into a fist and chest spasmed. Her face tightened. Before he could lift his head to ask what was wrong, she could feel tears on her cheeks, unbidden and unwanted, uncontrollable.

By the time he'd put the brush aside, she was sobbing.

She couldn't see through her tears when Martin folded his good arm around her, but she let him tuck her against his side. She pressed her cheek against his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric of it. Whatever walls she'd imagined, whatever steel in her spine keeping her strong, faded to nothing, and she really was just a young woman who didn't have enough room for herself. She hiccupped and shook, and Martin patted her back, then stroked her hair.

"How do you do it?" she gasped, drawing her knees up onto the couch, up to her chest. Her corset creaked and strained. "How do you- every _day_-"

"Practice," he murmured against the crown of her head. "And the certainty that this is the best option I have. Obsession, to have the best."

She had none of those.

"Come here," he said, and pushed the both of them up off the couch. His arm around her supported most of her weight, and she clung to him, barely hearing his grunt of pain as she strained his injuries. She heard the click of the paint box closing, and a rustle as he shrugged out of his sling. He must have scooped up the box; she felt him stoop for just a moment before he moved her towards her bedroom.

He sat her on the edge of the mattress, and knelt before her. She remained hunched against the onslaught of tears and mindless exhaustion and fear, the reverberations of the week's events loud inside her skull. Martin worked quickly, removing her shoes, stretching up to push her jacket from her shoulders. She barely noticed as he got her out of her corset, except suddenly she could gasp deeper, could hunch down further. She squirmed as he helped her out of her trousers, then kicked at him, gently, like a frustrated, overwhelmed child. He let her, though his hands skimmed along her ankles and guided her feet away from his bad side.

Standing, he wrapped his good arm around her again and eased her back onto the bed. He helped her down to the mattress, and she rolled onto her stomach, tangling her hands in the sheets. She pressed her cheek to the mattress and cried into it, letting its bulk muffle her and soak up her tears.

Martin's broad hand was pressed against her shoulders, and he rubbed between them, gently. She wondered how awkward this must be, how horrible for him, and the ferocity of her tears was renewed. He never left her side, though, and after several minutes, he bent down to press his lips to the back of her neck.

"You did so much for me today," he murmured. "I asked so much. And whatever I ask for, you give me."

_I don't know how much more I have_, she thought, weakly, and tried to burrow further into the bed.

His hand moved along her spine in soothing patterns. "I need to learn to ask for less," he continued, "or I won't have a chance of keeping you, will I?"

She replied with a confused, tired moan.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm here."

His hand left her back, though, and her muscles tightened in anticipation. She listened for the creak of the floorboards, or the slam of a door.

Instead, there was a faint click, followed seconds later by a cool, fluid pass of a brush along her upper arm. He pressed harder than he had on her hand, and so the brush didn't tickle at all. It calmed her. It didn't have the undeniability of a crop to her backside, but it was gentle and insistent, and she could latch onto it. She focused on each pass of the brush as he drew long lines, then went back along it with small curves.

Her tears began to slow, and she clutched less tightly at the sheets.

"Tomorrow morning," he said, "I think you should stay here, and rest. I'll take a look at our schedule and see what you can work on in the afternoon that's- light. Easy. Maybe research, something you can do alone."

Again, she could only reply with a wordless sound - but the thought of a morning off was attractive, even knowing there would be a Hound brought to her.

"There are preparations to be made for the celebration marking the return of the heir, but luckily, very few of those fall to us. I'll need a speech, but I can write that myself." His brush meandered up her arm again, and he bent down, kissing at the back of her neck. "The next few days or weeks will likely be quiet ones, unless we make them otherwise. Today was the apex, today was the day things came closest to falling apart, but there will be many more days to follow where we can either embrace the room we're given to breathe, or stamp our feet in impotent impatience. I want you to do the former."

She shifted, slowly, remembering what it was to have control over her body. Tears still stung in her eyes, but they were manageable. If she opened her eyes, she could see - it was only faintly blurry. "There's still so much to learn," she murmured.

"You're a fast study. Nobody can deny that," he said. "And you learn well in the crucible. Can I trust you to learn just as well when you're not against the iron?"

"I don't know."

The brush passed between her shoulder blades, then onto her other arm, skipping over the strap of her undershirt. He pulled away only to dip it again in pigment. "Well, I believe that you can, Miss Curnow," he murmured. His brush traced curling paths down to her elbow, her wrist, and finally in the cup of her palm. She shivered.

"Tomorrow," she said, turning her head so that she could see him. "Tomorrow, Havelock is going to go before Emily, if she's holding court, and petition to have his command restored. He'd like to see you as well."

"Of course he would."

She took a deep breath, brow furrowing with the effort to keep her voice half-level. "He's getting restless, and frustrated. Pendleton is distraught over his brothers' deaths, and knows that it was staged. Havelock resents being kept in the dark about our plans."

"Understandably. Well, I'll speak with him if he has a valid reason to show up at the Abbey. Easier than getting to his part of town unnoticed."

She nodded.

"That's where you went tonight, then?"

She nodded again. Martin pulled the brush away, then set it inside the case and closed the lid safely. He moved, settling his back against the headboard, sitting just beside her. He reached down and touched one of her hands. "After such a busy day, too?"

"After the letter from Geoff," she said. "They knew each other. I wanted... I don't know."

"Understanding that I can't give," he said, then shrugged his good shoulder. "I get it."

"But it ended up being just- more work. I had to be poised. Unflappable. Your agent. I couldn't be- scared, or weak."

Martin nodded, hand shifting to stroke her hair again.

Here, she could be scared and weak. She sighed, closing her eyes and relaxing.

"He's sending over one of his fighting dogs," she murmured. "In the morning. The hound's injured, and apparently placid."

Martin hummed. "I'm not sure I support that. I already offered you a better-trained one from the kennels, didn't I?"

"You did," she said. "But this one has already saved my life once. He'll kill Overseers just as easily as he'll kill thugs."

"That's dangerous," he murmured.

"I don't trust anybody," she said. "Not even your men."

She didn't open her eyes, but she could feel his hand tensing atop her head. Then it relaxed.

"I'll help train it up, then," Martin said. "The two of us alone will. You said it's injured?"

"Front leg was shot. It's in pins and bandages."

"And how does it act around you?"

"Obedient. It watches me, and will sit at my feet, will lie down when I'm close."

His fingers traced the shell of his ear. "Are you afraid of it?"

"Of course. I've never worked with beasts before."

He chuckled. "I could make several jokes to the contrary." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I've never been one of the kennelmasters, but I know their work well enough. You'll keep him here?"

"In one of the spare rooms, yes."

"I'll get bedding for him, then. A cage, in case you need it. Food, and the tools the kennels use."

"It will raise suspicion," she said.

"Not if I do it right. Don't worry," he said, bending down to kiss her scalp again. She opened her eyes at that, and looked up at him.

He gazed back.

She opened her mouth to ask how he could be so caring, so gentle, when two days before he'd been afraid to get close, but she could see the answer in the set of his jaw already. He wanted her at his side, to help him. She was too valuable to lose. She was fragile, and so he was shoring her up in the only way that would work. Any care or concern he had for _her_ was secondary to his goals.

That was comforting, that little bit of distance.

"Miss Curnow," he said, lightly, though his gaze was intent. "Are we still bound by our promise not to kiss?"

She couldn't imagine how she looked, covered in paint, half-naked, her hair frazzled and doing its best to escape from its bun, her face red and puffy, eyes rimmed with dark circles. "I don't know," she managed.

"Do you want to be?" he asked, canting his head. His hand moved to her chin, tilted it up. She shifted, scrambled, got an arm under herself and pushed herself up.

"Not really," she said.

He leaned in and kissed her.

It was gentle, but far from chaste, his tongue sliding along her lower lip. She shivered. Then he pulled away, looking at her painted limbs. "You should bathe, before sleep," he said, "or you'll stain your bedding."

_Your fault_, she thought, but was too tired and unsteady to say. Instead, she got herself upright, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Thank you," she managed as she stood. Her entire body felt heavy as lead, and she made her way, slowly, towards the washroom. "For- this. I know it's hardly your nature."

"You would be surprised," he said, standing and coming to her side. He put his hand against the small of her back. "My nature is responsive to the environment I find myself in."

"Still, there must be some limits," she said, with a quick, thin smile. "I doubt you'd adapt well to living in a small house by the coast. Well-respected but of no consequence, living your days by working the fields or your hands, taking pleasure in the salt air."

The words left her throat, and then she frowned, wondering where the idea had come from. Her childhood, obviously, but why now? She'd never wanted that life for herself. She still didn't.

"Would you?" he answered.

"... Maybe," she said. Her goals, after all, had a way of changing.

They parted in the living room, when she assured him she was still capable of bathing herself. He'd chuckled and smirked, and she'd watched him shrug into his jacket with a tired satisfaction. Once the door closed, she went to the washroom and reached for the tap.

The Abbey trident stared up at her from the back of her hand, emblazoned starkly against her pale skin.

She'd heard, once, that the Outsider marked his chosen few with his strange, heretical sigil. She'd always supposed it was somewhere hidden - a thigh, the small of the back, beneath the breast.

Of course, Teague Martin would have the audacity to place _his_ version of the mark where it couldn't be ignored.

She washed it away last.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

She slept until midmorning. She stirred, vaguely, as an announcement blared across the street sometime after dawn, then drifted again until she woke up slowly, naturally, to a room filled with warm sunlight.

Her breakfast was simple but filling, and she ate slowly. A few times she glanced to the clock, or towards the front door, wondering when Havelock would come by with the hound, but the exhaustion and catharsis of the night before had her bones and mind in a state of heavy languor. She refused to worry or fret, seemed incapable of it even when it might have been prudent.

Havelock finally arrived somewhere around noon. Callista roused herself from the chair she'd drawn up to a small fire, and set aside her book. She straightened up the sitting room as she walked through it, and made it to the door on Havelock's third knock.

They set Blacky up in a side room she wasn't using. Supplies from Martin had arrived earlier in the day, and Blacky sniffed at the bedding thoughtfully, then settled down on it. It was certainly nicer than whatever it'd had back in the kennels. Callista watched as Havelock crouched down and said a few soft words to the beast, then patted its head. It blinked lazily.

Then he stood and turned to her.

"Your commission?" she asked, hopefully.

"She said she will consider it," Havelock said, then frowned. "And she said that after Burrows whispered in her ear. He will need to be removed."

"Or his influence balanced," Callista said. "And Martin?"

"We had a good discussion. He will be talking with Pendleton today or tomorrow - we've decided that, for now, a noble will do more good than either of us will directly." He glanced around the apartment. "I expected to see you there. Taking a holiday?"

"A brief one, yes," she said, shutting the door to Blacky's room and moving toward the door.

"Don't stay out of the fray for too long, Miss Curnow," he said, hand settling on the door. "It will set your mind afire just as much as being in the center of it. I've seen men go crazy and drown themselves when becalmed."

"I don't intend to make this a habit," she said, and thought idly of Martin, wondering how he would respond if he ever _won_.

Throw himself overboard, she supposed. She caught herself rubbing at where he had painted her hand, and stopped herself. "If I have trouble with Blacky-"

"I would suggest you keep your pistol handy for the first few days," he said, as if it were wholly natural. "Which I would suggest anyway - you already have enemies, I'd guess."

"Perhaps," she said. The thought worried at the lazy calm blanketing her senses.

He nodded, and looked at what he could see of the apartment one last time. "You have been a very useful go-between, Miss Curnow, and I am glad that your position in the Abbey has allowed you this... secure and comfortable of a life. But if you'll listen to my advice- I'd pull back your involvement. Figure out the minimum of what Martin needs, and keep yourself to that. It will keep you safe. It will... potentially protect you if and when Martin's power falls."

"Thank you," she said, feeling the muscles in her throat and jaw begin to tighten. The advice would have been sound, if she wasn't already in as deep as she was. Geoff, no doubt, would've agreed with his assessment. She could already feel the yawning depths below her. If Martin fell, she would, too. Even if she never lifted a hand to help him again.

They were linked. She and Martin were now expected and able to move in tandem even without knowing the other's plots in full detail. She took a deep breath.

"Good luck, with your commission," she said.

He inclined his head. "Stay safe," he replied, then let himself out.

When the door closed, she locked it, then went in search of her gun.

* * *

She didn't go to the Abbey that day, and nobody came for her. Her indolence, however, was short lived. Blacky's presence kept her agitated, and her books seemed bland and empty, or overfull and tumultuous. Her thoughts barely touched upon the events of the day before, but they still spun, wildly at times, just off-kilter at others.

Martin at last sent for her near dusk, by way of a young woman who looked like she probably washed dishes in some other fine Clavering home during the daylight hours. She certainly looked relieved, possibly because the charming Overseer who had sent her hadn't sent her straight into danger. Callista took the missive, and sat down beside Blacky while she read it.

The hound was quickly getting used to her, and had spent much of the day being as lazy and quiet as she had. He jerked away from her attempted touches, but once or twice, when she sat near him on the floor, he shuffled his head closer to her thigh. He hadn't tried to escape, at least, or lunge for her, and so she had decided he was largely content with his new home.

The message from Martin was simple. He didn't need her for work, but he would like to see her, and at Holger, in his office, which likely meant he wanted to keep her updated but uninvolved. She dressed in her uniform, scraping her hair onto the top of her head, and left Blacky with a dish filled with ground meat she'd purchased from the butcher two blocks over when she'd stepped out that afternoon in search of easy, cheap street food.

She walked the half mile to Holger, taking the opportunity to observe the watch houses set up by Reginald Black and his ilk. They were distressingly common, taking up space along the road every two or three blocks. The men inside and patrolling nearby were in good spirits, if slightly dark in their humor, and as she walked and peered over the edge of the street into the lower alleys and gutters, she only saw seven or eight rats.

Several streets over, though, she could hear the bleating alarms of a new wall of light being set up and calibrated. And when she looked up, past the four- and five-story townhouses, the sky looked more smog-clouded than usual. The whaling houses further along the river were probably beginning to process the worst bits of the beasts, wringing out every usable drop of oil and meat and bone from them, unsure of how long the blockade would continue to allow the whaling ships to return to port, unsure of just how many were still out on the waters and afloat.

As she passed through the gate to Holger, she noted the slight differences between the Overseer patrols and the Watch patrols; how the Overseers were more tightly wound, more brutal in their below-breath jokes. She'd caught at least one of the lower watch pissing in an alley on the way over, but the thought of one of the masked men pissing or shitting almost made her laugh. They still didn't seem entirely human, though she'd spent weeks among them.

She'd always, really, been a bit apart.

She considered a detour to the barracks and the back yard to take inventory, but decided that Martin should accompany her when she went.

Instead, she climbed the marble stairs, listening to the wind snapping the heavy Abbey banners above her. She passed from the dusk gloom into the bright wash of the floodlights, and from there into the well-lit entrance. There were a few people there, and Callista heard the soft words of the consulting Overseer, telling them what they wanted to hear, shoring up their internal defenses.

Callista passed into the stairwell and climbed up.

Martin's office door stood open a few inches, and she knocked quietly as she entered. He looked up with an easy smile from the couch near the window, where he sat with his ankle crossed over his knee. He held a cigar between his fingers, and beckoned her closer with it.

"The door?"

"Can stay open," he said. He gestured to the chair across from him, and she settled into it. "How are you feeling?"

"... Better," she said. She glanced to the hall. "It's been a quiet day."

"Good," he said. He leaned forward, uncrossing his legs and settling his good elbow on his knee. He held out the cigar. "Here, for you."

She held up her hand, and had her mouth open to demure when he said, "This is an order, Miss Curnow."

Lips pursed, she reached forward and took it.

"Place the end in your mouth, and don't inhale. You want the smoke to fill your mouth, not your lungs."

She considered the cigar, then tentatively placed the finely-cut tip between her lips. Eyes down, nearly closed, she let the smoke fill her mouth. It tasted like cedar and tea, with the faintest hint of moss - nowhere near as astringent as the cigarettes she was used to.

"I realized that you'd never had a proper lesson in relaxing," Martin said, softly. "There's much to be enjoyed about your position now, you know - it's not all work."

Callista leaned back, taking the cigar from her mouth and letting the smoke curl from her nose and lips.

Martin smiled.

He stood up, rolling his good shoulder and moving over to the sideboard, where he'd already opened a bottle of Tyvian red. "We must, of course, take care not to get lost in such pleasures."

"Of course," she replied.

"But I've wound you up too tight. I think a regimen of indulgence is in order."

She listened to the splash of wine into the glasses, and leaned back, closing her eyes. She took another puff of her cigar, letting the flavor wash over her, the luxuriousness work its way into her mind and untangle her thoughts. Several times, her mind tried to return to its tight, tense fears, but she made it a point to work them loose again.

Distantly, she heard Martin place her glass on the small table between them.

Martin was right, of course - he didn't seek power because it was horrific and terrible, he sought it because of moments like this. Moments she could only have imagined, when she was working for the Pratchetts and had seen all the fine old casks of wine and the boxes of cigars, the fruits of industry and wealth. They were hers, now. That was her reward.

She stirred, and sat forward, moving to pass the cigar back to Martin, but he refused it with a raised hand. Instead, he got a new one for himself, and she watched as he prepared it, using a fine, strange pair of scissors to cut a small hole in the closed end, and using a long wooden match to set the open end to smoldering.

He spoke as he worked, teaching her about cigars and about Cullero, talking about a trip to Serkonos he once made. She doubted half the details were true, but it hardly mattered. From there, their conversation turned to wine, and the drinking of it, and the enjoyment of it.

Dusk slid into night, and she hardly noticed.

"And the hound?" Martin asked, when wine and cigars had been discussed in seven different ways each.

"Adjusting," she said. "He's shown no signs of violence. He appreciates the bedding you sent over."

"Good," Martin said. He stood, picking up the empty bottle and inspecting the label. He pursed his lips. "I've got a bottle of King Street brandy I could get, if you wanted to make a night of things."

"Of course," she said, smiling.

"Ah, let me finish. It's not here- I haven't picked it up yet from the shop I order from. I'd have to go and get it. The owner's still awake, I wager- but it'll take a bit. I'd understand if you're too tired."

"I'm quite comfortable," she said.

"Well then," he said, inclining his head and setting the bottle down. "I will return shortly."

Martin had been gone maybe ten minutes when there was a knock at the office door, which he'd at last closed behind him. Callista frowned, rising from her seat. Her thoughts spun in a wine-soaked round.

"Enter," she called.

An Overseer opened the door. It was hard to judge his reaction, but she expected it was surprise. "Miss Curnow," he said. "The High Overseer-"

"Is indisposed. What do you need, Brother...?" The words came easily, but outside of her control. She frowned, and tugged on her gloves, trying to ground herself.

"Jasper," he said. The attention he came to was woefully inadequate. She couldn't think of a way to chastise him. "We've arrested three men. Thugs. They've demanded to see him."

Callista's frown deepened. "Do we listen to the demands of thugs, Brother Jasper?" He didn't respond. "Well, he isn't available. Describe these men."

"Morlish, all of them. We found them in Bottle Street territory. All have various broken bones."

_Morlish_. Callista's spine straightened, her blood chilling quickly. _If_ they were straight from Morley, and _if _Jasper's assessment of them was right, there was a high chance they were the same men who had assaulted Martin.

Which meant they knew Martin's identity, and likely wouldn't hesitate to share it if they knew they were in a position to harm him.

"I'll handle them," she said.

Jasper didn't move at first, even as she rose and approached the door, but whatever disagreeableness was in him faded enough for him to step back when she came within a few inches of him.

"Why are they in our custody, and not the Watch's?" Callista asked as they descended the stairs to the interrogation room adjacent to the library. "Have you seen signs of heresy in them?"

"Their pockets are full of Morlish spirit charms," Jasper said. "But it's a matter of timing. If they hadn't demanded to see the High Overseer, we would have turned them over by now."

"I see," she said, stepping out of the stairwell and into the main hall. "In the future, ignore such demands. They are the grasping attempts of desperate men to make themselves appear larger than they are."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her vision was steady, as was her walk, and she hoped Jasper couldn't smell the wine on her breath through his mask. She walked straight for the interrogation room, then paused as she reached the door.

She couldn't have Jasper in there with her, or any Overseers. It was too dangerous.

"Are they all restrained?"

"Yes."

"Good. You and your men, I want you out of the room. Have somebody on post to send the High Overseer here when he arrives." The words were out of her mouth before she could calculate the risk, before she could realize how suspicious the other Overseers would become. Why would she go in alone? What was so dangerous about these men?

She struggled to find a justification.

"Of course," Jasper said, the words slow and thoughtful.

"They are likely possessed of a lying and deceitful tongue, Overseer Jasper," she said, smoothing the red cloth at her waist, positioning the tail of it, with its Abbey emblem, so it was clearly visible. "And while we have made great progress in Morley, the continuing proliferation of belief in heretical gods and spirits surely sits in every Morlish man's heart, ready to work his body to violence and discord. I would expose as few of us as possible to it until the High Overseer can make his assessment on their potential for danger."

"They're just thugs, Miss Curnow," Jasper said, and she imagined him smirking, mocking her with every thought. "They are pathetic, violent men. Not agents of the Outsider."

"No, but _thugs_ by their nature do not respect the structure of society, and seek to profit from its demise," she said. "And you thought them dangerous and important enough to honor their request to see the High Overseer. If they are restrained, they will pose little physical harm to me, and any harm to my soul cannot be guarded against by more bodies in the room. Are you questioning my orders, Brother Jasper?"

"Of course not," he said, and turned from her to call his men to heel.

_Lying tongue_, she thought, before escaping into the interrogation room's observation floor.

She watched through the tightly-spaced bars as the Overseers left. One of the Morlish men was bolted into the main chair. The two others were bound, trussed like hogs, and chained by their wrists and neck to the bars behind the chair. They shouted curses, their accents thick and their voices slurred by various injuries.

The one in the chair, however, was silent.

None appeared to see her, and Jasper didn't direct their attention to her before slamming the door shut on them. So Callista backed away from the bars, settling down at the table which held an audiograph already running.

The shouting continued for another minute, then fell off into muttered swears and the harsh, jarring clangor of the men testing their bonds.

"Should've never gone after that fucker," one said at last.

Callista bowed her head, listening.

"Should've gone right after Slackjaw. That was the _job_."

_Slackjaw_. Callista frowned. She'd heard that name before, from Geoff. Usually accompanied by several swears.

"Yeah, and let that gobshite keep on drinkin' and whorin' his way to the top? Fuck off."

"Yeah, well, if you all bleedin' gits hadn't mentioned our old friend, then we'd be in a drunk tank and out in the morning," the third one - likely the silent one in the chair - barked. Callista crept closer to the bars, and saw him clenching his fists and jaw, as if in extreme pain. "We coulda got him in a week, two- he keep going by that slag's place, we'll get 'im again. But the prince- hafta be clever with him."

Her face burned. She moved to creep back, glancing to the door, hoping that Martin would come through soon.

Her ankle turned. She slipped, catching herself only after she'd made a small noise, enough to draw the men's attention.

Slowly, she stood up.

"Aye, that one," said one of the men. He glared up at her. "She's the one fuckin his royal majesty the king of dicks."

"I would watch your words, gentlemen," she said, coming to the bars. "It wouldn't be the first time this institution has tortured innocents."

The other of the men chained to the wall laughed and spat. "Yeah? And then we'll scream out all his little secrets."

She looked between the three of them. Beneath their defiance, they were nervous - the man in the chair most of all. He was the leader, and the smartest of the three, and was watching, helpless, as their chances of being let out alive dwindled. He knew, as well as she did, that she couldn't let Martin's secrets out - and that she'd heard the threat against his life.

Callista crossed her arms over her chest.

"Quiet down, boys," he said. He jerked his chin up. "You heard that?"

"Yes."

"You better know your boy has some dark shit behind him. Lots of blood, lots of knives where they don't belong."

"I'm aware," she said.

"You want a piece of advice? Don't ever trust that son of a bitch. He'll slice your throat while he's riding you, and when the cops come for him, he'll cry and say he'd seen your brother come and kill you. And they'll believe him."

Callista was motionless. Was he speaking from experience? Did it matter?

"You let us go, we'll take care of him for you."

"Unacceptable."

"Then you let us go, and we leave him _alone_. Soul's honor. What do you say to that? We're only here lookin' for another man. It's just, your boy makes us so _angry_, you hear?" He worked his jaw, thinking fast.

"You're here for Slackjaw. He's- what, head of the Bottle Street gang?"

"Aye. And important, back in Morley. We've come to take 'im home. Isn't that right, boys?"

They both nodded their heads, rattling their chains.

"We ain't heretics. We're good boys. No wandering gazes or restless hands, eh? Just a bad case of the roving feet, and we want to get home, yeah?"

Callista turned from the bars. She went to the desk, looking at the variety of implements on it.

"There is a blockade around the city, if you hadn't noticed," she said, pitching her voice to carry clearly. "There will be no going home, with or without your additional passenger."

Her hands were shaking. She flattened them against the table to still them.

"We got ways. We got in, yeah? Let us go, and we'll be on our way. You can feel free to let him stab you in the back on his own time, that's fine by me. He'll shoot himself in the ass, too, if you let 'im. We just- wanted to hasten things along. But I get it. Not the natural order o'things. You see? We're smart men."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, you are."

She turned from the table. Martin hadn't arrived yet, and it was impossible to predict how long it would take him. Jasper likely waited outside, ready to come check on her at any moment he felt would help him most, whatever his goals were.

So she extended her arm through the bars of the upper floor, and shot the man in the chair three times in the chest.

The two others shouted, screamed, and she missed her next shot from their squirming. The pistol wasn't as accurate over such a range. But the next two shots found their marks well enough, and if the men twitched and gurgled and sobbed with pain, there was nothing she could have done about it.

She returned the pistol to the table.

Jasper's men burst into the room thirty seconds later, Jasper rushing to her aid. She gave him a thin smile. "Simple thugs, Brother Jasper," she said. "No need to give them room or board, or let them find their way back here another day."

"... Just so, ma'am," he said, then swallowed.

She left him staring down at the corpses. The stairs to Martin's office seemed higher than normal, and her steps were uncoordinated as her heart beat rapidly in her chest. _Four_. There were four dead men to her name now, if she didn't count Corvo and the Pendletons as indirect murders. These three, and the Overseer. She turned the number over in her thoughts, like a coin across the backs of Martin's fingers, as she picked up a fresh cigar. She mimicked Martin's earlier actions, then sank into her chair, letting the smoke fill her nose and mouth.

_Four_.

Her reasoning was simple. If she'd turned them over to the Overseers, they would have told their interrogators about Martin's past, which would have led to more uncertainty and division within the ranks than either of them needed to deal with - and might have given Burrows the opening he needed to discredit Martin entirely. If she'd let them go, there would have come a night where, maybe drunk or maybe wholly in their right minds, they would have come to her apartment to kill Martin or to have their fun with her. No, there had been no reason to let them live, and no alternative, just as there had been no alternative at the pub.

Maybe that was why she wasn't shaking anymore.

Her cigar was a quarter burned by the time Martin returned. He knocked, then entered and approached carefully, cautiously, no doubt afraid to find her overwhelmed and terrified again. She looked at him levelly, and he looked back, brow furrowing in confusion.

"You've caused quite the stir," he said at last.

"Oh?"

"You and your marksmanship. The last of your victims took half an hour to die."

The fear came back, loud and roaring. "Did he say anything? The one who lingered?"

"No. Your shot through his lungs made sure of that." He ran a hand through his hair, then sighed and dropped into his seat. "It would have been better if you'd gassed them, poisoned them. We've had incidents where heretics have killed themselves rather than speak with us. Nobody would have questioned them. And at any rate, your actions were very nearly for nothing."

Callista sat forward. "What do you mean?"

He undid the toggles at his throat and pulled out the audiograph recording from his jacket. He tossed it onto the table. "If I'd arrived a few minutes later, they would have played this."

She stared at it. Such a simple thing. She'd made the right decision under the circumstances - she knew she had. And yet-

"I was trying to protect you," she said.

"And you did a passable job," he said. "But damn it, Callista- what were you _thinking_?"

"I isolated them. I- I silenced them."

"And you've got the entire barracks whispering about your violence and potential indications of guilt and now I need to consider if you need to be questioned - and there is no _gentle_ way to question you." He looked at his hands. "What would you have me do?"

"... Smooth it over," she said. "Like you always do."

"And how shall I do that? Act as if you did nothing wrong, like they're all mad to think your response was anything but reasonable?"

"That tactic has convinced many a maid that she deserves to be beaten," she said, softly.

Martin went still.

"Tell them," she continued, "that I was raised by a Watch officer, that I do not have the subtlety that the Abbey expects, and that I will submit to further training. Tell them that I was not authorized to do as I did, but that there is nothing _wrong_ with what I did. Excuse my behavior, and I'll do whatever I need to, to show that it was an error born of poor education and not poor judgement."

She held her breath.

_Four_. And yet nobody had cared about the first. Nobody had ever brought it up. She'd never even heard of a funeral for the men who had died that day.

"And in the meantime," she ventured, "there's no more connection here to your past. You're safe. I may not be, but-"

"You _will _be safe," he said, standing up. "Let us hope, though, that Emily Kaldwin's return will regain everybody's attention soon enough, and this will be forgotten all the easier. In the meantime, Miss Curnow- go home for the night. I'll see you in the morning, bright and early. You _need_ to practice with that pistol."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Her hands stank of gunpowder when she returned home that night, and the night after. The first night, she tried her best to scrub it away; the second, she simply soaked in her bath, exhausted. She'd spent three hours, in two uneven chunks, in the yard being instructed by Brother Hume on the proper handling of a pistol. She could still hear his nasally voice berating her stance, and her uncle's influence. Apparently, the Abbey and the Watch had different approaches to the handling of guns.

She'd started out eager to learn, but as her shoulder and wrist began to ache, as the pistol got heavier and heavier and her shots went wider and wider, she'd simply become angry. The break had been necessary, after nearly two hours of practice, and even Martin had been startled when, during that break, she'd reviewed the Abbey's food purchases, found discrepancies in purchase price and price actually paid, and rousted out the quartermaster. Confronted with the evidence, he'd been belligerent for only a few minutes (tense, harried minutes, while Callista questioned the intelligence of going in person) before breaking down, confessing that he was using it to buy the men in his unit more than their current rations in elixir.

Her anger had calmed somewhat, and she had checked the budget and ordered an increase in elixir rations for the barracks, remembering Sokolov's advice.

But her rage had come back in the second, shorter lesson, quickly; Hume pricked at her sensibilities, and eventually, when she felt a sharp urge to turn the weapon on _him_, she excused herself, and went up to the top-floor balcony that she had shared with Martin the day after she'd met Attano.

When she was calm again, she'd shut herself into the library and focused on her education.

But her hands still stank of gunpowder. She was too tired to scrub, so she just sank lower into the tub. A few doors down she could hear Blacky scratching at the floor. She'd let him into the apartment proper to eat, but she wasn't quite ready to trust him to roam free while she tried to relax.

Then he barked. It was a rough, brutal sound, and she bolted upright, water sliding from her skin. She clambered from the bath, reaching for her robe. Blacky barked clearly one more time, before his barks began to roll together into a cacophonous whole. She belted the robe tight, then reached for the pistol she'd left on the vanity.

She couldn't hear a knock through Blacky's barking, but by that token, she wouldn't have been able to hear the lock being picked, or a window being opened. She crept into the hallway, and went first to Blacky's door. As the latch gave under her hand, Blacky shoved his muzzle out along the jamb, then wriggled his body through, dashing out into the hall. He went straight for the front door, and she followed.

He reared up, barking and pawing at the door. She heard a muffled swear from the other side.

She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. They didn't come. Instead, her visitor shouted,

"Miss Curnow! Call off the hound!"

_Martin_. She swore, padding up behind Blacky. She caught her hand in his harness and eased him back onto all fours. "Shh, no," she said, then jerked the leather straps, hauling his head around to face her. He tried to pull away, to assault the door again, but she met his gaze. "Sit, Blacky."

He hesitated a moment, judging her resolve, before he obeyed.

"Martin is a _safe_ visitor. Now, stay," she said, and slowly uncurled her hand from his collar. He stayed put, but he shivered from the effort. She considered dragging him back to his room; could she really control him if she let Martin in?

Blacky watched her, closely, waiting for any sign of uncertainty.

She set her jaw and straightened, then opened the door.

Martin stood on the other side, looking more than a little pale. He cleared his throat, craning his head to look inside the hall and ascertain where the hound was.

"So that's him," he said, attempting to mask his nervousness with a slow drawl. "Quite the guard dog."

"That _is_ why I have him," she said.

He dragged his gaze away from the hound and looked her over. He stopped when he saw the gun. "... A bit more paranoid, are we?"

"I couldn't be sure who it was."

"And yet you answered your door in your robe," he said, and quirked a brow. She flushed.

Had it only been three days since he'd had her on the floor, his head between-

The flush deepened. She stepped back, waving him inside with her free hand. Blacky growled, faintly, but remained seated as Martin sidled inside and closed the door after him.

"Is something the matter?" she asked, setting the gun aside on the nearest flat surface. She tugged her robe closed, up around her throat.

"I wanted to let you know that everything's been taken care of - about yesterday. Their corpses were dropped into Rudshore this afternoon. And I wanted to make sure you were feeling alright." Martin's brow lifted again, even as he crouched and offered his hand to the hound. Blacky sniffed it, then grew disinterested.

"Go back to your room," Callista said, waving a hand. Blacky stood up and padded off in the right direction. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you as angry as you were today," Martin said, standing and stepping closer.

"Anger is better than fear."

"Sometimes. But you're _used_ to fear, Miss Curnow. _Callista_." His voice deepened. He stepped closer again. She didn't retreat. "You know how to make wise decisions even when you're caught in its grips. Today you seemed- out of control."

She looked down, at his throat. He was right, of course.

"I understand," he said, voice now a low murmur, "that it will take some time for you to learn your balance. But I want you to think back to when you stole this apartment back from Timsh. You were at your _peak_, then, of what I've seen from you. You're gaining in skill and knowledge, but you've left that poise behind. And understandably so - the events of this last week would have strained anybody."

"Have they strained you?" she asked, looking up.

He worked his jaw, then swallowed. "The night before we rescued the Empress- that's your answer. I lost control of myself."

"And do you have it back?"

He rubbed at his jaw, glove scraping over stubble. "I'm adjusting. It's- dangerous to ignore strong desires. But my point is- you need to be taken back in hand, Callista." His lips curled, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Leaning in, he whispered in her ear, "You need me to set your boundaries, to restrict your excesses, to channel them to something more... fruitful."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits as her belly twisted in anticipation.

She'd missed him.

"I agree," she replied.

She could _hear_ his grin, the pull of his lips across his teeth, and her back arched slightly in response. She tugged the belt on her robe loose, then shrugged her shoulders, letting the fabric slide from her skin and puddle on the floor.

He groaned, a faint, dark sound in his exhale, and leaned back. His gaze drank her in, and she thrilled at the contrast between them - him still in his uniform and slightly unsettled, her naked and more confident than she would've expected a week ago.

"Get on your knees, Miss Curnow," he murmured.

She sank down in front of him, eyes fixed on his as he undid his belt in sharp, fast movements. She could see how his breath hitched, how he kept moving forward so as not to stop entirely. She felt powerful, the way she had when she'd crawled across the floor to him and he had watched, helpless.

Did he realize how vulnerable he was, or did he think he was in control?

He undid the fasteners on his trousers, and her breath caught. In all their games, he'd never been naked, or even close to naked, in front of her. She'd felt his cock through his trousers once or twice, but suddenly that was very different from seeing it. Her mouth went dry.

He chuckled, and she tilted her head up to look at him. "Surprised?"

"Strange," she managed, licking her lips, "to see you as just a man."

"_Just_ a man? Miss Curnow, I'm wounded," he purred, settling his hand on top of her head. His fingers rubbed small circles against her scalp before he nudged her head closer to his cock. "Must I recite to you all that I command as High Overseer?"

Her heart stammered, and she licked her lips again, but could find no answer. Instead, she leaned forward and swallowed down the head of his cock. Whatever quick jibe had been on his lips evaporated in a breathy gasp and the tightening of his hand. A glance up revealed his brow furrowed in exquisite delight, and her breathing turned to desperate pants of her own. She engulfed him by degrees, and when she'd taken him almost to the root, she lifted a hand to brace herself against his hip.

His hand in her hair tightened, and dragged her back. She whined.

"No touching, Miss Curnow," he breathed. She nodded, his cock sliding along the roof of her mouth. He hissed, but released his hold on her.

As she took him to the back of her throat again, she sank down, her hips widening and her body loosening. _Finally_ thundered in her head, over and over again, with each bob of her head and swipe of her tongue. She was out of practice, certainly, and had never been very good at sucking a man off to begin with, but the relief of finally just _wanting_ Martin, with the freedom to take and give because of it, made her eager. She lavished attention on the tip of his cock, then took him deep again, her lips tightened so that the head of him popped into her mouth with just enough resistance to make him moan and buck.

And the more she worked him, the more he responded. His hand tightened in her hair again, and she arched her back, balancing with her arms crossed behind her as if bound at the wrists. His hips snapped forward in answer, and he began to dictate the movements of her head, pulling and pushing. He stopped just short of hurting, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't; her world narrowed to him and the brush of his jacket and trousers against her cheeks. Once or twice she gagged and shivered; each time made Martin moan louder.

He stopped, abruptly, deep in her mouth. He hunched over her, shivering. When she tried to work the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock, he swore, and pulled away, shoving her back. She rocked onto her heels, staring up at him, eyes wide and lips parted.

"Sitting room," he rasped. "Sit in your armchair. Legs over the arms, hips at the edge of the seat." He swallowed, rubbed a hand over his face.

When she didn't move, he snarled, "_Now_, Miss Curnow," then tipped his head back and closed his eyes, breathing hard.

She smiled and rose, her reddened knees protesting. Her jaw and scalp ached, but it was faint, especially in comparison with the marks he'd left on her the other night. She padded out to the sitting room, and eagerly draped herself over the armchair, arranging herself as he'd asked. She felt exposed, her legs spread wide, and she wondered what he was preparing. Would he remove his belt, and swat at her? She almost closed her legs at the thought, caught between desire and fear of how much it could sting. Or would he just pin her wrists above her head, and hold her open to him while he finally fucked her?

Callista groaned, head falling back against the chair. She lifted her arms above her, wiggling her fingers, considering.

The floorboards in the hall creaked, and she flushed, lifting her head. But the doorway was empty. No Martin. Had he gone to the kitchen to get himself a whiskey? She shivered, shifting awkwardly in her seat. Just like him, to keep her waiting - but for how long?

Somewhere in the house, Blacky paced, his claws clicking against the floor.

Minutes ticked by. She frowned. She opened her mouth to call his name.

Something slammed into a nearby wall.

Blacky erupted into screaming barks, and he tore past the door to the sitting room. She jerked herself from her seat, staggering to her feet and racing to the hall. The gun- the gun was still where she'd left it, and she grabbed it as she ran towards the kitchen, after Blacky. He was snarling and snapping now, and she could hear more thuds, more scuffles. Martin shouted.

She burst into the room, pistol up and cocked. Martin was backed into a corner, his cock still hanging from his trousers. He clutched at his ribs. Blacky was between him and the man staggering up from where he'd fallen on the floor. The man wore red, with high leather gloves and a knife in his hand.

"Get out!" Martin bellowed.

Callista took a step back, but didn't lower her gun as the man straightened and turned towards her. His eyes terrified her, sparking with a dark, violent light.

He disappeared.

She swore and turned, but she couldn't see him. Blacky barked, and she backed into the kitchen, staying close to the wall. Martin reached for her, but before she could get to him, she was pulled up short by an arm around her neck, squeezing tight and hauling her back. She shouted, kicking back, but she couldn't dislodge him.

He dragged her towards the hall, and she fumbled with her pistol, shoving the safety on and tossing it to the ground. Martin lunged for it. The man behind her crossed the threshold, then staggered. His grip tightened, loosened, then tightened again.

His fist clenched, and she felt a cool, dark emptiness rush in her ears. She thrashed, but her body obeyed on a delay. By the time she'd pulled her arm around, the man holding her was gone. She spun. He was at the other end of the hall, and she lifted her hand, forgetting for a moment that the gun was no longer there.

_He's going to get away_. Martin shoved past her, aiming his gun, but the first shot went wild as the man staggered and fell to one knee, clutching his chest. The second met its mark, piercing the man's skull and throat.

His corpse jerked once, then slumped into a heap at the end of the hall.

Callista fell back against the doorframe, gasping for breath as her ears buzzed and rang. Martin remained immobile, staring at his victim. His free hand went idly to his healing ribs.

Blacky limped out from between them, making his way over to the corpse. He sniffed at it, then settled down beside it, as if to keep watch.

"Who-"

"An assassin," Martin whispered. "... A Whaler. He- it's soaked in dark magic." He reached out and took her wrist, pulling her into the kitchen, away from the hall. His gaze flicked around. "There could be more coming. It's not- it's not safe."

Callista craned her head back, but could no longer see the body. "If there were more... wouldn't they have come when he began to falter?"

Martin didn't respond.

She turned back to him, then froze as he kissed her. His lips were hard against hers, and he worked her mouth open with desperate passes of his tongue. She groaned as he gripped her hips, lifting her and shoving her against the high counter behind her. The edge bit into her back, and she squirmed in his arms.

His mouth left hers and kissed a searing trail down her throat. He lifted her again, fitting her this time against the flat of the wall, and he pinned her there, wedging himself between her legs. His cock stirred to life as he bit and suckled at her throat. Her head fell back, and she fought to keep her eyes open, her attention on the room. If he _was_ right, if _she_ was wrong, if there were more assassins-

He thrust into her, and she cried out, eyes closing tightly. He thrust hard, and she scrabbled for some kind of hold against the wall. She hooked one hand against the corner where the counter went back, and tangled the other in his harness.

His rhythm was brutal, desperate, and soon he forgot to lap at her throat and instead could only bow his head against his shoulder. Each thrust made her toes curl, made her moan and gasp, and she bit down on her lip, trying to stay silent. His belt rubbed against her clit and belly, and she bucked against him. He pressed her harder into the wall, then lifted his head. He met her gaze for one long moment, before he closed his eyes and kissed her again.

She was swept up in a rush of terror and relief and pleasure, and she clawed at him, tore at his mouth with her teeth. When he pulled away to kiss at her shoulder, she pressed her face against his throat and breathed in the scent of his sweat, of the starch in his uniform. His harness caught on her nipples, and she whined, writhing, until it was enough, _he_ was enough, to send her careening over the edge in a wild freefall.

The snap of his hips and the relentless rhythmic press of her spine into the wall were the only things allowing her to keep track of time, and when they finally stopped, his cock buried in her belly, his body shaking, she lost herself in her ragged breaths and the shivering thrumming of her body.

At last, Martin pulled away, easing her back to the floor. She reached for the counter to steady herself as he tucked himself back into his uniform. Glancing down at herself, she could see pink and red tracks where her skin had been rubbed raw. She touched one trail, wincing as it began to sting.

"Get dressed," Martin rasped. He peered at his muddy reflection in her kettle as he smoothed his hair back into place. His lip was swollen from where she'd bitten him, and his hands shook. "I'll leave, go somewhere safe for a few hours. Inform Hume and Windham that you were attacked, let their men clean up the body. Then... then come to the office. I'll make sure you have a safe place to sleep."

Callista nodded, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I'll be there," he said.

She nodded again.

"Don't tell them I was here. Say he tried to kill _you_. I'll... find a quiet way to look into who sent him."

"Of course," she said.

He managed a faint smile. "... And thank you. For saving my life."

She glanced at the hallway door. "You killed him."

"But if you hadn't brought your gun- if you hadn't rushed to help me-"

She stepped forward, reaching up to touch his jaw. "You're safe," she said.

He swallowed. Nodded.

"Safe," he agreed.

* * *

The next morning, the examination room was cold and bleak. The body laid out on the slab looked inhuman, the bright, stark lights illuminating all its crevices and bumps and scars in unsettling detail. Where the face had been was only a pit of chewed up blood and bone, flesh and brain, but nobody's attention was on the brutal destruction of the cranium.

Martin sneered at the corpse's hand.

"As I suspected," he pronounced.

"From our reports," said Hume, standing close by, "and from Miss Curnow's description, I believe we can determine with little doubt that this was Daud. The head of those heretical butchers."

_Shit_. Callista hoped her frown would be taken for solemn consideration, and not the sudden panic she was feeling. With Daud _and_ Attano dead, there was no way to prove that Burrows was behind Jessamine's death. They should have thought ahead, thought to capture the assassin before-

Before what? How could they have known that Daud would have come after _Martin_?

Of course, it made sense - if Daud was Burrows' man, then Burrows would send him after whatever threat he was most afraid of. Callista looked over at Martin.

Martin managed a thin smile for her. "Well, then. It seems some commendation is in order for Miss Curnow, for exterminating such vermin."

"With any luck," Hume said, "his creatures will fall to pieces without him. High Overseer, this may be our best opportunity to raid what I suspect is their hideout."

"And where is that?" Martin asked.

"Rudshore, High Overseer. A fitting place for them, to be sure, but it would be best to stamp them out."

"Indeed." Martin crossed his arms over his chest, frowning at the vivid black mark upon Daud's hand. "Very well. Please bring me any evidence that might point to who hired Daud to kill Miss Curnow, as well as anything you find on the nature of their black magic."

"Of course." Hume waited a moment, then cleared his throat. "If I might suggest- is it possible that Daud or his employer sought to kill _you_?"

Martin quirked a brow. "And why would he have lain in wait at Miss Curnow's apartment to do that?"

"You are well-defended here," Hume said, shifting uncomfortably.

"And yet I do not frequent Miss Curnow's apartment. Besides, that did not stop Captain Curnow from killing High Overseer Campbell," Martin said, blandly. "No, my guess is that it was a first step. Kill Miss Curnow to make me panic and drive me into foolish action. Luckily, your training of Miss Curnow yesterday seems to have come at just the right time to save her life. We will remember that, Brother Hume."

"Of course, High Overseer." He saluted. "Permission to begin organizing the raid? I would like to strike this evening, or early tomorrow morning, before they have time to regroup."

"As you will," Martin said. "Bring me a roster and requisition order for approval."

"Yes, sir," Hume said, before turning and marching from the room.

Martin's jaw worked as he stared down at the corpse in the ensuing silence.

"... He was our last potential piece of proof of Burrows' misdeeds," she said.

"If I had known who he was, I would have aimed for his knees," Martin murmured. He sighed, passing his hand over his eyes. "But he's now very dead. We can only hope that Hume finds... something. In the meantime, we'll continue as as usual. Hume and Windham are doing an admirable job of keeping the death silent. I'll have the body chopped up and fed to the hounds before noon."

She nodded. "I'll make no mention of this to anybody."

"Good." He offered her another tight smile. "Because Burrows sent for you. The letter was on my desk when I arrived this morning."

Callista grimaced. "And he doesn't know?"

"He knows that I should be dead, or will be dead soon - depending on what their timeframe was. If, of course, he was the one to hire Daud this time. But no, as far as I know he doesn't know that Daud's dead."

She nodded, considering, wondering if she would be able to remain calm and aloof.

"... How are you?" Martin asked, dropping his voice to a bare murmur. "If you're feeling unbalanced, I'll send an excuse on your behalf."

"Afraid I'll expose us?" she asked, looking away from him and approaching Daud's corpse. She reached out to touch the mark on his hand. It didn't look like a brand, or a scar, but neither did it look like any tattoo she'd seen before. It reminded her mostly of the paint upon the back of her hand.

Martin's hand closed around her wrist, stopping her.

"Don't touch it," he breathed in her ear. "There _is_ black magic in this world, Callista; there _are_ curses. Not so many as my brethren suspect, I think, but this... is undeniably something tainted." Slowly, he backed her away from the body, then reached up to take her chin, turn her face away.

She stared up at him, brow furrowed.

"I don't think you would willingly expose us, or even trip into doing so on your own, but Burrows is a very smart man, and a very scared one. He tried to have me killed. He would not hesitate to have you arrested on some charges, and sent to that mute beast of his in the bowels of the Tower. Right now, you have my regard to protect you, but to him, that's only a formality that must be somehow sidestepped. If you feel unbalanced-"

"I feel fine," she said. It was a lie, of course; her heart still sped up inconsistently, when she thought of the arm beneath her chin, or the barking of the hound, or how close Martin had come to death - and sometimes when she was thinking of nothing at all. When she'd slept the night before, in a small room in the Abbey, she'd seen the Pendletons dead on her kitchen floor, and Attano, and all the bodies piling up at her feet.

But she didn't feel the anger of the day before. She didn't feel the numbness that had come before that. She felt worried, and alert, and wary- but Martin had been right.

She knew how to handle her fear better than her dissociation, her rage.

"I'm the best I could be, under the circumstances, and I don't expect to recover much more." She lifted her chin and he dropped his hand. "Besides, it will give me an opportunity to check on Lady Kaldwin."

Martin frowned, then nodded, stepping back. "That's very true."

"And you?" Callista closed the distance between them once more. "Last night, you were- unsteady."

His throat worked as he swallowed down whatever answers first sprung to his lips. Then he shrugged. "I suppose," he said, glancing away, "that I'd assumed I'd be less likely to be assaulted now that I wear red. I thought the attacks would be more... subtle. Slow. Less violent. I was wrong, clearly."

She waited for another word, any sign that he might have changed his goals - but received none.

"Get ready, then," he said, turning back to her. "He's invited you to lunch. There may be other guests. Hand one of your uniforms over to be properly starched, hm?"

Callista inclined her head. "As you wish."

* * *

Lunch was laid out in a sumptuous sunroom, and Callista considered the choice. The windows were large, expansive, and looked out over seemingly endless water. She could see the blockade ships a few miles out, though, and their dark bulk (even as specks on the horizon) unsettled her.

The windows were clearly a weak point, except that they looked out over a sheer drop hundreds of feet down. In fact, barring a wayward seabird, they were entirely defensible.

No, it was probably safer, with its limited points of access, than other rooms in the Tower, and it certainly made an impression. The floors were warm, rich woods, and the entire room seemed softer, more welcoming, than the grand entrance had been with all its cold marble and draped banners. The ceiling was still high, high enough to make her feel quite small, but she didn't get the same sense of guards watching her from perches.

Then, of course, there was the company. Lady Kaldwin was going to sit at the head of the table, if the small cushion in the chair was any indication. Immediately to her right seemed to be Burrows' seat; at her left, Waverly Boyle was already seated, and beside her, Treavor Pendleton.

Burrows, at her side, motioned her towards the seat at his right. "Please, Miss Curnow. Ah- do you have an official title yet?"

"None that isn't a mouthful," she said, stepping around the small, oblong table. "Assistant to the High Overseer, I suppose. Miss Curnow is fine."

Pendleton was doing his best not to acknowledge her, or recognize her. Instead, his focus was entirely on Waverly, who in turn was watching Callista with hawk-like intensity.

"My sister mentioned you," Waverly said. She looked similar to Lydia Boyle, with the same dun-gold hair, but she was noticeably prettier. Her features were sharp but well-formed, and matched her demeanor perfectly. Her hair was combed back into a neat, architectural bun, and her clothing, in a warm, dusky wine, flattered her thin shoulders and small waist. "Though she didn't have much to say, except to remark on the High Overseer having an assistant. Are you Abbey-trained?"

"No," Callista said, settling into her chair. "Though I have, of course, been studying the finer points of the Strictures and what it takes to run such an institution. The sisters of the Oracular Order do not make for good assistants; I was better suited to the administrative realities such an assistant would be expected to handle."

"So you handle pay? Requisition orders?"

"Rarely. The quartermaster and his squad still do the majority of the work. I mainly handle the large-scale finances as well as setting meetings and handling correspondence, freeing High Overseer Martin to focus more on his duties of protecting the wayward souls of the city."

"I see." She inclined her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "I'll admit, I'm surprised your duties are of such a- practical nature. You must understand, had _Thaddeus_ employed a young lady as an assistant..."

Callista smiled, thinly. "I am aware of his predilections." She resisted the urge to reach up and adjust the red cloth that was tucked into her collar to better hide the bite marks down her throat.

"I don't mean to offend," Waverly said, smoothly.

"And I am not offended," Callista replied.

Waverly nodded and sat back.

The woman hadn't smiled the entire time, Callista noted. Her expression was coldly analytical. By comparison, Burrows looked furtive, and Treavor looked- flushed.

"Lord Pendleton," Burrows said. "Have you and Miss Curnow been introduced?"

"Our paths have crossed once or twice before, but never for more than a moment." He cleared his throat. "I'm glad to have the opportunity to meet- such a woman. It must be interesting, working at Holger."

"Weren't you a governess, before this?" Waverly asked.

"I was, yes."

"And that," Burrows said, "is why I've asked her here today, and why the Empress is not in the room yet. Miss Curnow- surely you know, better than most, how the young mind may be affected by grief and responsibility?"

"I never tended to any children who had been through the horrors that I imagine Lady Kaldwin has," Callista said. "Though I did lose my parents at a relatively young age. I can merely suggest and hypothesize." She swallowed and smoothed her hands along her breeches. She hadn't expected that _this_ would be his pretense, and having her thoughts turned back to just how _alien_ she had felt when confronted with the girl-

"I," Treavor interrupted, "have my own thoughts and suggestions, based on living with my brothers as a young man. I know their proclivities, and their limits."

He glanced to Waverly, who glanced for just a moment at one of the pastries set out on the table. He reached for it.

"Usually," Burrows said, "I would have had this lunch attended by proper service staff, but I would, of course, prefer this be left... private."

"Of course," Callista said, watching as Treavor took a bite. Waverly watched his throat, inspecting, and only after Treavor seemed completely unaffected did she reach for her own pastry. She didn't take a bite immediately, but she also looked away from him.

Martin had mentioned her paranoia; was she using Treavor to check the foods here for poison? He seemed to know very well how to play his part.

If she was, then the fact that she worried about _these_ foods meant she didn't trust Burrows very far at all. Perhaps she wasn't as close to him as her presence here would suggest.

Burrows tapped his fingers against the table. "She is... very good at hiding whatever grief she feels, but I worry about her more violent impulses, Miss Curnow. You've seen her in action; she is wildly impulsive, and full of a deep rage. Understandably, of course; she trusted Attano, despite my cautions to the late Empress to control that relationship. And that two of her nobility would steal her and torment her in such a way - it's hardly thinkable.

"But, understandable or not, her willfulness and anger will not do her any favors. She had not quite progressed to arguing with my advice, but I can see it building in her. And while I, of course, _appreciate_ her input-"

"We cannot afford a divided head of state," Waverly finished, at last cutting off a bit of pastry and taking a small, careful bite.

Treavor nodded, emphatically. "It is imperative that we stabilize the public's perception of us. There have been threats of riots in the wards where Sokolov's walls of light have been introduced, and without ships from the Isles and with few shipments of food from the surrounding farms, eventually pressures will increase - on all of us. If the public continues to see Parliament as full of wicked men who would abuse the child of Jessamine Kaldwin- if the public begins to suspect that their beloved Empress's daughter does not agree with her Regent- then we will have yet another source of disruption to deal with, beyond the blockade and plague. It's foolish to incubate that."

His voice was wavering on the edges, and he glanced continuously at Waverly, as if seeking her approval. His whole presence was clearly focused on her. Was he- besotted? Callista canted her head, slightly, then took a pastry for herself. "I agree," she said, slowly. "Speaking from my former life as a mid-level governess, I can confirm that the people of Dunwall do have a true love for the Kaldwin line; now that Lady Kaldwin has been safely recovered, they will want to hear happy stories about her. They won't understand that she acts under the pressures and echoes of what's happened to her; if they hear that she's unhappy, they will blame the Regency."

Burrows barely controlled a snarl; it came out only as a wicked, curling tightening of his lips. "Indeed, Miss Curnow. Your insight is much appreciated. I would, if you're amenable, like to call on your help in these trying times. You understand children and grief."

Callista paused, a bite of pastry halfway to her mouth. "My job at the Abbey takes up the majority of my time, Lord Regent. And it would hardly be- seemly."

"She needs an education in the Strictures," he said.

"Which would be much better taught by an Overseer," she said. How much could she politely resist? She glanced to Waverly, and found herself being watched, closely. Her mouth went dry and she looked back to Burrows, who had sat back in his chair and was trying his best to look at ease. He was failing. "I am sorry, Lord Regent- I can provide my professional advice, but I was also never the governess to any woman of Lady Kaldwin's standing. My last posting was working for Mr. Pratchett, of Pratchett's jellied eels. I'm not fit to care for such a lady."

"You'd hardly be her _governess_, or nurse, Miss Curnow," Waverly said. "For the reasons you just laid out. I've suggested the woman who attended my niece, and she is proving to be a strong fit. However, I concur with the Lord Regent - your occasional presence would do her some good, I feel."

Treavor's chair scraped, and all eyes went to him. He cleared his throat and fumbled for something in his jacket pocket. "I disagree," he said. "With all due respect - the girl does not _need_ an in-depth spiritual education at this time, and while she would benefit from learning the political structure of the Abbey, Miss Curnow is hardly learned enough - at this time - to provide it. Besides, Miss Curnow seems quite invaluable to the Abbey."

Callista's eyes widened, and she reached for a glass of sweet wine. She sipped at it, thinking back on how he'd glared at her, spat at her, in the pub. He didn't trust her anymore.

Or, maybe, he didn't want her in Burrows' circle. Did he worry she would betray him? Betray Martin? Or was he afraid she would report back to Havelock with what he was up to?

Damn - if only she could have gotten him alone. There were too many possibilities.

"Lady Kaldwin," she said, once the wine had slid in a sticky, hard lump down her throat, "is in need of emotional connection. She needs individuals she can trust with all her heart, and not fear. The teachings of the Abbey are not about such trust; I would be a poor candidate to provide it to her. But this nursemaid you've enlisted for her- encourage that relationship."

"I fear," Burrows said, "that one day she will order the woman dead for some imagined slight."

Callista shook her head. "Perhaps, but only if she has reason to fear those imagined slights. We all expect a great deal of our Empress, but it may be smarter to mute those expectations for a little bit. Allow her to be a child in the way she wishes to be a child. In time, she will become resilient again. Balanced."

Waverly nodded, slowly. "I shall let her know, then, that should she need somebody to talk to, somebody... familiar with the pressures of court life, that she can always come to me. It's been some time since I've interacted with a child, but for the good of the Empire..."

_And the good of your social standing, _Callista thought. Lydia may have had Burrows' support and attention, but Waverly was smart to make herself invaluable, personally.

"Indeed," Treavor said. He fumbled with a match to light the cigarette he'd extracted from his pocket. "I will remain available, as well."

"I appreciate your support," Burrows said, though his gaze was fixed on Callista, his teeth gritted. "Hopefully, the knowledge that she has adults she can rely on will... assist her recovery."

Callista inclined her head. "And if you have need of me, I can see what I can do."

"Thank you, Miss Curnow, though I suspect now that it won't be necessary." Burrows rose from his seat. "Thank you for your insight. I'll have a guard escort you back to your car."

Callista glanced towards the empty seat. No chance to see the Empress, then. Had she made the wrong choice? Burrows' eyes held a quiet fury - but at what? That she hadn't signed onto his side of the conspiracy? That she hadn't let herself be manipulated by the promise of being able to whisper in Emily's ear as she grew? That despite his careful avoidance of anything suggestive of Martin being in danger, she hadn't slipped and revealed that there had been an attack?

Or was it that Waverly and Treavor had taken control of the situation entirely?

Waverly inclined her head as Callista passed to the door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"Strange," Martin agreed, sitting back in his seat and setting down his fork. "Do you want my opinion?"

Callista considered, pushing a scrap of eel around on her plate. It was evening, the same day as her lunch at the Tower. "I think Burrows is afraid."

"I agree."

"He must have known the assassination attempt failed - that you're nearly untouchable. So he turned to me. It's the only reason I can think of for why he'd try to entice me _now_, instead of when you first hired me."

Martin nodded, and reached for a glass of wine. "And Lady Boyle? Pendleton?"

"Pendleton blames us for the deaths of his brothers," she sighed, sitting back. "At least emotionally. But I'm certain he knows that Burrows was behind _that_, as well, so he's at no risk of defecting."

"Just being obnoxious," Martin agreed with a slight shake of his head.

"Boyle is surprisingly helpful. From what you know of them, is it possible that she could be _jealous_ of the influence her sister has?"

Martin shrugged. His shoulder seemed to be getting better. He'd managed to shave on his own that morning, too, though she could see a few small spots he'd missed and a shallow cut beneath his jaw. "Jealous, I'm not sure. But it's certainly possible she doesn't trust her sister's connections to keep her safe."

"She seems to think Emily's regard is more important, if cultivated correctly."

"I keep imagining those two - Pendleton and Boyle - setting themselves up as surrogate parents for the girl," Martin said, chuckling. "It's a sight."

"She could do worse," Callista said. "She could have _us_."

Martin's chuckle died, and he canted his head to one side. "I think we'd make acceptable parents."

She flushed and cleared her throat. "Well, then. She could have Burrows."

"Indeed."

They finished their meal in silence, the scraping of forks across plates too loud for Callista's comfort. Martin's comment echoed in her ears. Them- parents? It would have been easier if he hadn't stopped laughing, she decided. If he'd acknowledged, as she had, that there was no chance of children, that their strange relationship and, more importantly, their status prevented it. Besides, Martin willingly tethering himself to a small, defenseless child that could offer him nothing, at least at first?

Unthinkable.

Martin's chair scraped across the floor, and she looked up to find him setting a small parcel and an envelope down by her right hand.

"What's this?"

"A letter," he said. "From the High Oracle. It was _also_ on my desk this morning when I arrived, but I didn't want to concern you with it. Take a look."

She frowned, gaze still on the parcel, but she took the envelope first. It was smooth, made of nondescript but fine paper. Not oiled. It couldn't have traveled far - certainly not from the High Oracle's seat. And that was ignoring the or so days wasn't nearly enough time for her to have returned to her tower _and_ sent a letter, especially with the difficulty of getting anything into the city.

"Read it," Martin prodded, and she pulled the folded sheaf of paper.

_High Overseer,_

_If this letter has reached you, then you have sent no updates to my office in the first fortnight of your reign. I am disappointed in you; I thought that we had an understanding._

Callista looked up, sharply.

"She-"

"Has somebody monitoring our mail, yes," he said, voice cracking from its dryness. "Go on."

_I expect summary reports sent each week for your first year in office. We will renegotiate after that. In case Campbell had misplaced my address, I include it for you here._

_Anise will return at regular intervals, in case you decide to forego written communications._

It went on to discuss several theological matters that Callista could now parse but couldn't summon up a deep interest in. What stood out to her the most was its tone. When they had met with the old woman, Callista had gotten the impression that she was _pleased_ with them. That Martin's willingness to communicate had engendered some trust and forbearance. This was...

Distressingly aggressive.

She set it down. "We should figure out who her agent is," she said. "There's no good in removing them, of course, but I would feel... safer."

"Indeed."

"It's only been- what, three weeks?"

"And by that measure, it was released late," Martin agreed. "Her letter says fortnight. So perhaps this is just to spook us."

Callista stared at the pages a little longer, then sighed. "I'll write a response tomorrow. What do you want covered?"

"I trust your discretion. Basic events, enough detail to make her feel included. More than you might tell Burrows, but nothing incriminating. I'll review it before you send it out."

Callista nodded and set down the papers. Her hand went to the parcel. "And this? Don't tell me she sent us an all-seeing eye she expects us to mount in your office."

He chuckled. "No, that one's from me. Medicine," he said. "For our- indiscretions."

Her flush returned. "I'm quite capable of going to the pharmacy on my own. And the questions that might get raised, you going by yourself-"

"Are less damning than if you went. Campbell had his whores, Miss Curnow - my _indiscretions_ are less damning if they don't immediately implicate you. Besides, this isn't from the pharmacy. This is from Campbell's personal stash."

She wrinkled her nose.

That drew another chuckle out of him. "As far as I can tell, it's never been opened. Do you know how to take it?"

"Mixed with milk," she sighed. "Yes, I know. I'll get some tomorrow. Do you want a whiskey?"

"Yes, please," he said, stepping back as she pushed her chair out.

"Your buying contraceptives may not raise questions," she said, "but if you continue coming over - in full uniform, no less-"

"I wanted to give the apartment a good look," he said, following her to the kitchen. They passed through a different door than Daud had dragged her through, and she was able to keep her mind off of it. From a different perspective, the room was changed. "Make sure there are no glaring weaknesses. I had my men go over it this afternoon-"

"_Excuse_ me?" Callista said, as she reached for two glasses. "I'd like some warning next time. Or, better yet, don't send them at all."

"I thought you'd appreciate it," he said, shrugging. "Anyway, I had them install a little something, just in case another heretic gets in here. Now that we've confirmed he really was touched by the Outsider, I'd assume all his lackeys are as well."

"Installed," she said, dryly, as she poured them each a finger. "Where, exactly?"

"Sitting room, for now. Come here, I'll show you."

Bristling, she handed him his glass, then followed him. He led her to a portion of the bookshelf that now held a rather nice wooden chest. She hadn't been in the sitting room more than a few minutes since arriving home; Blacky had needed a walk out on the streets, and Martin had arrived soon after.

"At least you didn't try to hide it."

"That would defeat the purpose. Here," he said, holding out his hand for hers. She let him guide it to the side of the box, where she felt a lever. "Pull."

She pushed it down.

The room became filled with the strange, discomforting sound of Holger's device.

"It's automated, crudely," Martin said. "There's a small whale-oil canister around the back. We abandoned the design years ago because they can't be on continuously, and they take too much maintenance - easier to just have a hand-powered machine assigned to various patrols. But it will work well enough."

From down the hall, Blacky whined.

"He doesn't seem to like it," she said, flipping the machine off.

"Better a whining hound than an assassin," he said. He offered her a smile, the old charming sort that he wasn't wearing quite as often these days. "Are you sure you don't want to stay at the Abbey? Campbell kept a private room, near the kennels. I've had it cleared out. It's easily protected without being in the middle of the barracks."

Callista sighed, sitting down on the arm of the chair. "I'm sure. We've discussed this - I need _some_ distance from you. It's better than your first offer of just sharing your bed-"

"I was mostly joking," he said, smiling and coming closer, resting his hand on the back of the chair.

She shook her head. "I'll be safe. They came for you, not me. So as long as you're not here..."

"You're kicking me out," he said, and took a sip of his whiskey. "And here I thought we could have a do-over of last night, without the blood."

Callista could feel herself blushing. "Tempting," she admitted, and mirrored him, draining half her glass. It burned down her throat, and settled warm in her belly. "But you have a meeting with the Watch tonight, don't you?"

"Mm. Follow-up to your stint as interrogator, yes," he said. "But it can be a bit less of a production this time, I think. Just something quick. Indulgent."

Callista slid off the arm of the chair, and moved away from him. "Another day, when I've had a chance to clear my head. And when you haven't just had Overseers come into my home while I'm away and rearrange my things."

He hummed in acknowledgment, then knocked back the rest of his whiskey. "... I do wish we'd been able to enjoy that a little more, last night," he said. "I'd intended to take all night on you."

Her toes curled in her boots, and she refused to look at him. "You're hopeless."

"A little. I've had to keep the old me tamped down for quite a while, you know. Strictures and appearances and all that."

She nursed her glass. "Don't let loose too much," she said.

"Of course not." He crossed the room to her, then leaned in, just enough to clink his empty glass with hers. "Really consider moving into the Abbey, though, at least for a week or two."

"Nobody will come after me," she said.

"Let us hope you're right." His smile was tight. Worried. He tipped his glass to her, then set it on the mantle. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"In the morning."

He sketched her a slight bow, and turned to leave.

"I'll come early," she said. "To help you shave. You've missed a few spots."

He cast a crooked smile over his shoulder. "I'll look forward to it," he said, then passed into the hallway. A moment later, she heard the door open and close.

Sighing, she considered her whiskey, then tipped the rest down her throat. Scooping up his glass, she carried both to the kitchen, and tidied up the remains of their dinner. When she was finished, she passed through the apartment, checking each window, making sure they were shut tight. Martin had a point; the Abbey would have been a more secure place to sleep. But she refused to give up her own space. She could only do her best to make sure she was safe.

She nudged open the door to Blacky's room. The hound had been resting for much of the day, while she'd been home. It seemed like a good sign. A hound like him would be alert, if there was anything to worry about.

Blacky was asleep. She smiled, closing the door.

Something dark flashed by the corner of her eye. She froze, peering down the darkened corridor. _Nerves_, she told herself, firmly. Just nerves. Perhaps she _should_ take Martin up on his offer of a place to stay for a few days, while things settled. Swallowing, she advanced down the hall. She saw nothing.

Glancing around her, she ducked into the sitting room and went to the device on the bookshelves. The lever felt welcome under her hand, and as the noise buzzed to life, she relaxed. It grated on her nerves, but she could ignore that for a chance for her heartbeat to calm.

A floorboard creaked, off to her left. She spun. A masked figure in red - the same red that Daud had worn - crumpled to their knees, and Callista swore and fumbled for the gun at her waist.

"H-hold-" the figure rasped.

Callista thumbed off the safety. "Get out," she said, forcing her voice to be loud and even.

The figure swore, and she thought she heard a woman's voice. Ignoring Callista, the intruder reached for its mask, fumbling with the clasps holding it in place. It was the same mask that the men in the refineries wore.

Clasps giving way, the woman - and it was a woman, with dark skin and angular features - threw it aside, then jerked, retching, vomiting over the wood.

_This_ was the power of the box, on a true witch? Callista noted it, keeping her gun levelled at the woman's head.

Panting, the woman looked up. She looked- confused. _Confused_. "He's not here," she said, voice ragged.

_Martin?_ "Go out the way you came," Callista said, slowly, "or I'll shoot."

_Shoot now,_ a part of her whispered. _Letting her live will only hurt you in the future. She's an assassin, and a witch_.

Callista's finger tightened on the trigger.

"I said _hold_, dammit!" the woman said, trying to stand up. She wavered, unsteadily. "I- _fuck_-"

"State your name, then."

The woman only glared.

"You came here to kill the High Overseer, like your compatriot?" she asked, advancing. The woman fell back against the wall, heaving for breath and staring up at Callista. "How many more are there?"

"None," she said. "And yes. I did. Thought I'd make up for- for making Daud fail."

"Then in the name of the Abbey, I hereby sentence you to death, for conspiracy and heresy."

The woman laughed; it was broken and shrill, without humor. "_Heresy_. Oh. That's a good irony for you. With Daud dead, I've got nothing." She tugged hard on her glove, dragging it off her hand. She tossed it aside and shoved her hand out in front of her. "See there? Yesterday morning I had an echo of the mark on his hand. I'm sure you've seen it. You've probably put it on- on _display_."

The back of her hand was covered in a jagged-edged burn.

"Now I have to climb stairs the old-fashioned way, and seeing in the dark's a dream. Turn off your damn box."

"If you're not a witch without him," Callista said, slowly, "then why did you vomit when I turned the box on?"

_Kill her, kill her_. The Morlish men had been easy.

"Because- because-"

Callista pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped into the woman's leg, and she howled in pain, head slamming back against the wall behind her as she wailed.

It was, after all, better to interrogate her first. How many of these heretics had Martin's men caught before? Very few, from the records she'd found earlier that afternoon. This was an opportunity. She seemed bewildered, lost without her leader. No, better to ask questions first, now that she was incapacitated.

The woman's screams turned to pants and swears.

"The box," Callista said, "stays on."

She quickly ran through the odds of the woman staying in place - and alive - long enough for her to send for Martin. He'd want to be here, and would no doubt be angry with her if she didn't call for him. He'd also do a better job.

But Callista felt certain that, even with an injured leg, the woman would be up and gone the moment Callista left the room.

"You're right - he's not here," Callista said. "Is that why I'm not dead?"

"You're not the target," the woman wheezed. "So yes. That's why. The bounty was only for him."

"And who was going to pay it?"

"Hiram Burrows," she said, then grimaced, eyes closing as she fought a wave of pain. "That's why it seemed like... a fitting time for him to go..."

Callista frowned, and dragged around her chair. She sat down, keeping the gun on her lap. "You said that already- that you're the reason he failed. What did you do?"

"Poisoned him."

"So he was meant to fail?"

"I _thought_ the old man was strong enough to do the job before he keeled over." She fixed Callista with a glare, then shook her head and tugged at her hair. "Fuck. I can't think straight. It's like I've- been asleep the last month, or something. I barely remember _getting_ here."

"But you remember why you came."

"I remember... yeah. No. Not really. I came to avenge him and to laugh at his corpse and to curse him because I thought without him, _I'd_ be the one in charge. That was the whole damn point. He was weak, I wasn't. I was going to... _Fuck!_" Her face was going grey as the pain continued and as she bled out onto the floor. Callista had shot her in the calf, not the thigh or knee, and she'd hoped the woman could fight through it, but she was getting less and less certain.

She swallowed and glanced towards the bathroom. There were medical supplies there, but she didn't want to leave the woman alone.

"It's that damn _witch_," the woman spat, and Callista's gaze jerked back up to her face.

"What witch?" Callista asked.

The veins on her neck stood out above the high collar of her shirt. "Fucking- get me some kind of bandage-"

"I can't afford to let you escape," Callista said.

"Then shoot me! Make up your mind!"

"I want you alive, to answer questions."

"Well, you're shit at interrogating," the woman hissed.

"The Abbey isn't."

She laughed. "I can kill myself faster than they can get answers out of me."

Callista quirked a brow. "Then why are you still alive?"

The woman didn't answer. Her eyes narrowed, but then she turned her attention to her leg, muttering curses. Her fingers worked at the leather of her boot. The pool of blood beneath it seemed to be steadying, no longer expanding.

She looked pathetic. Wounded. But she clearly was holding onto some hope of surviving- and escaping.

"... I'll go get bandages," Callista said, and stood slowly. "But with you bleeding that much, I'll be able to track you if you run. Stay put."

She got a tight grimace as an answer.

Callista kept her gun, and went down the hall to the bathroom. She pulled out bandages, then stilled, unsure of what else she would need. How was she supposed to treat a bullet wound? She stared helplessly at the cabinet, then gave up, returning quickly to the living room.

The woman was slumped, unconscious, against the wall. Her chest still moved with breath, and Callista bit down her swear. She approached cautiously, watching for any sign of movement, of alertness.

She found none.

Crouched at the assassin's feet, Callista took the ruined boot's sole in hand, and gave it a tug. It came away with a wet sucking noise, and blood pulse from the woman's calf as the pressure was removed. Callista leaned forward quickly, and began unrolling the bandage. The bullet had passed straight through, and beneath the woman's leg, there was no sign of bone fragments. Good, Callista supposed.

When the wound was bound, Callista rocked back on her heels, staring at the body. Then she set aside her gun and hauled the woman up. She carried her down the hall to the closet, and tucked her inside in as comfortable a position as she could manage. She wedged a chair under the door handle, then stepped back.

She needed Martin's help.

* * *

"Interesting," Anton Sokolov said as he peered into the woman's mouth. "She's got a capsule embedded in a molar. Quite low in profile, so it would take a great deal of force to break it. My guess is that it's some kind of poison. I've heard of such tricks."

"It's documented, yes," Martin said, arms crossed over his chest. "Some kind of gas. Can you remove it?"

"Not without extracting the tooth, and it would be a tricky business even then," Sokolov said. "The pliers can crack the capsule. It would be dangerous."

"For her or us?"

"Just her. Probably."

Martin grimaced. "Do it. I don't want her interrupting our little chat. What do you think, Callista?"

Callista looked up from where she sat, apart from the tableau in her kitchen. "I think this would be better done at the Abbey. And that if she was going to kill herself, she would have already."

"You said she seemed disoriented?" Sokolov asked, turning to his small, basic medical kit. Martin had rousted him from the Golden Cat, but he had come along willingly enough. The mention of witchcraft had drawn him in.

"Yes. She said she didn't remember the last month much at all. And I doubt she would have told me as much as she did, otherwise."

Sokolov hummed.

"Just rip it out," Martin said. "The Abbey has been tracking them for months - and Hume wasn't able to take any of them alive tonight."

"She said she'd lost her abilities," Callista offered. "She was complaining that she had to climb stairs."

"That fits with what Hume reported," Martin agreed.

"A shame," Sokolov grunted, frowning down at the woman. "And not what I came here to see. Still - that is one of the suspected abilities of those in contact with the Outsider," Sokolov continued, extracting a set of pliers from his bag. "It's a sort of teleportation. They can cross a set space in the blink of an eye, barely touching down between. Interesting, to have it confirmed. Did you see any other strange things? Or any of her fellows?"

Callista looked over to Martin.

"We encountered Daud last night," Martin said. "I would assume this one has come to finish what he started."

"She said as much, yes," Callista confirmed.

Sokolov circled the table that had been converted into a surgery bed, his patient's limbs bound down to the legs of it. As he reached for the woman's mouth, Callista turned her head away and stared patiently down the hall.

"She also suggested that the reason Daud did not succeed was that he'd been poisoned," she added.

Callista closed her eyes at the sharp crack of the tooth being extracted. She heard Martin release a long-held breath. The capsule, she supposed, hadn't broken.

She swallowed down the bile in her throat.

"Poisoned," Martin said. "Yes, that makes sense. He seemed- unsteady. Strange, for such an infamous assassin. He was unsteady, and she was disoriented."

"She mentioned a witch," Callista said. "Blamed her."

Martin nodded. "You said as much. Were you able to get a name?"

"No," she said. "Perhaps, though, it would be best to take her to the Abbey, let Hume-"

"Did she know who hired Daud?"

"... Yes," Callista said. "Yes, she knows the details." She glanced at Sokolov, then flinched and turned away as he set the tooth, covered in blood, onto the table. Red flecked the woman's pale lips.

"Then I don't want this going back to the Abbey," Martin said.

"She said I'm shit at interrogating," Callista offered.

Martin laughed. "No doubt. I have a bit more experience, though, Miss Curnow. As does the doctor, if I'm not mistaken?"

Sokolov grunted in response. "I'm no expert. It's dirty work. I'll leave it to you. And I won't be patching up whatever new holes you put in the woman," he said, gesturing to the fresh bandage wrapped around her leg. "Not unless I get more of what she knows about the Void, that is."

"Here for the pursuit of knowledge, of course," Martin said, with a low laugh. "Well, thank you for letting me pull you away from your _other_ pursuits, Dr. Sokolov."

"Hmph. It's interesting enough. Though not as interesting as you led me to believe, High Overseer."

"My apologies. I didn't know the woman had lost her power," Martin said, smoothly. He came to Sokolov's side. "I'll have a bottle of King Street sent over tomorrow."

"Much appreciated," the man said. He looked down at his patient. "Let me know if she says anything else of interest."

"Of course, Royal Physician. Thank you." She managed a thin, grim smile for him, which he barely seemed to notice as he went to gather up his supplies. "How long will she be out?"

"Given that she didn't wake up when I extracted the tooth - probably another half hour, an hour at most."

"But she will wake up?" Martin pressed.

"If you keep her head tilted so she doesn't choke on her own blood, then yes," Sokolov drawled. "I have some batting in her mouth to soak up the worst of it. If you're feeling brave, you can change it."

"I think I'd like to keep my fingers," Martin said. "Well- shall I show you out? Let you get back to your pleasures? I'd expect at least one lady likes a doctor with some blood on his hands."

Sokolov snorted, but inclined his head to Callista and followed Martin out of the room.

Callista balled up her fist and tucked it beneath her chin, worrying at her lip as she looked at the assassin. Asleep, the patient looked surprisingly young. The opium had made her limp, and stripped of her boots and jacket, her weapons cast aside, she looked weak. Vulnerable.

Martin returned, his hands rubbing together idly. "Nice to have at least one ally," he said.

Callista nodded, eyes still on the woman. "What will we ask of her?"

"Her name. The location of the other assassins. The identity of this witch of hers."

"And then?"

"And then we'll kill her, I suppose," Martin said. "Or would you prefer she took another crack at you once her leg is healed?"

"Neither," she said.

Martin snorted. "And here I thought - given the other night - that you'd be itching to put a bullet in her head."

"I am aware," she said, "that my interrogation methods leave much to be desired."

She flinched as Martin's hand came to rest on her shoulder. "You'll learn," he said. His hand worked into the muscle, and she sighed, letting her hand drop from her chin.

They stayed in companionable silence until the woman began to stir. She moaned low in her throat, and shifted on the table. It took several minutes for her to become aware of her bonds, but when she did, she didn't fight. Instead, she went completely still. She turned her head.

Martin's hand stilled on Callista's shoulder, then slipped away. He straightened his uniform and approached the table.

"Your jaw is likely sore. We removed your capsule," he said.

Callista stood just in time to see the woman glare at Martin. She worked her jaw, then flinched. Turning her head, she pursed her lips, then spat out the lump of blood-soaked fiber.

"Your leg has been properly attended to," Martin continued, "and the damage isn't permanent. There was no injury to the bone. You are lucky that Miss Curnow didn't shoot to kill this time - she hasn't been so kind with others who don't answer her questions."

"I answered her questions," the woman said, words slurred and vague. She let her head fall back against the table once more, and closed her eyes.

Martin considered her a moment, then went to the music box that he'd moved from the sitting room. He flipped it on.

The woman flinched, but it was small. She didn't pale or thrash. "That's _horrible_," she grunted.

"A name, please, or I leave it on."

"Billie," she said. "Not that your box is doing any good, you know. The witch is out of me. Fat lot of good it'll do _me_, but I guess I should thank you."

"What witch?" Callista asked, walking into Billie's line of view. _Billie_. It was such a normal name.

Billie glared at her, then sighed, testing her bonds again. "I'm a bit tired. Maybe we can talk this over in the morning?"

"Now, please," Martin said. He circled the table, then reached down to take one of her hands in his, pulling it up against the rope binding her wrist to the table leg. "I'm a bit more patient in my methods, Billie. How do broken fingers work for you?"

"Fucking bastards," Billie groaned. "Fine. Her name's Delilah Copperspoon. Happy?"

"And where is she?"

"Out in Brigmore." Billie managed a fierce smile, her teeth coated in her own blood. "How about you send some of your soldiers out there? Torch the place. I'll thank you."

"I'd rather know where any others of your other assassins are," he said. "I've had two attempts on my life in two days, and Miss Curnow keeps getting caught in the crossfire."

"Maybe if you'd keep your _dick_ in your pants-"

Martin pulled his hand back. Callista flinched at the crack of finger bones breaking, and Billie hissed, then shouted through her clenched teeth.

"I do have neighbors," Callista said.

"They've ignored gunshots before," Martin said. "I think they can ignore this."

Billie gasped for breath, panting hard, as Martin released her hand and stepped back. "They're all dead!" Billie swore. "All dead, or gone. Without Daud, they're all scattering, and _your_ men routed any who stayed behind. We've got nothing now - no home, no powers. If you ask me- if you ask me, Delilah wanted us gone."

"It sounds like I should thank her, then."

Her fierce, horrible grin was back. "You do that. See how she twists up your brain in knots."

"I want names, Billie. Your compatriots. Names, and appearances."

"Fuck _off_," she said, then spat a gob of saliva and blood at Martin. It never reached him, but Callista could see the patina of rage descend on his face. She approached the table, quickly.

"Martin-"

"I am going to _ensure_ that none of these shitstains ever get close enough to cast a shadow on you, Miss Curnow," he hissed.

"I'm the only one who knows you were a target," Billie said, quickly. "The only one. He didn't tell anybody else, do you understand?"

Martin smiled, grimly, and leaned down over the table. Callista nearly reached for his elbow but stopped herself before she could move.

The longer Billie resisted, the more violent Martin would become. She couldn't make Martin look weak. It would be worse for all of them.

"Fuck. Off," Billie said again, smiling sweetly.

Martin struck her, hand colliding with the swollen side of her face. Billie cried out. It was necessary, of course, but Callista's stomach churned all the same.

She turned and left the room.

Geoff, of course, would have done just the same in Martin's place. Torture and violence were necessary; he'd told her that once when he'd come off shift with blood spattered on his sleeve and his knuckles raw. And she had seen men with their heads blown off, had listened to sermons at the Abbey that encouraged the Overseers to destroy the bodies of heretics so that they could not pass on their filth even in death. She'd struggled for her life and watched a hound tear out a man's throat.

But this felt different. This prolonged, intentional violence, with no end in sight-

It was too close to what Attano had gone through.

Callista slumped into the armchair, ignoring the stink of blood just in front of her. She combed her fingers back into her hair, then covered her ears, to block out whatever sounds and screams Martin would wring from the woman.

She jerked when his hands settled over hers, just a few moments later.

She opened her eyes to find him crouched before her, brow furrowed. He eased her hands down, wrapping his gloved hands around her fingers.

"It gets easier," he said.

"Easier."

"It does. Right now, we carry too many secrets and are posts are... new. New and vulnerable. The people below us have no reason to keep our secrets for us, or to ignore damning things about us. So we have to protect ourselves. But that gets easier. Once we're stable, once we're truly installed as the head of the Abbey, any Overseer could hear a man ranting that I was once a highwayman in Morley, and he would only beat the man harder for his heresy, for his lying tongue. It won't be long before we don't have to do any of this ourselves. I promise."

"And that's easier?"

"It is. Believe me." He squeezed her hands again.

"I'd rather not have to do it at all. A month ago, I'd never have had to torture somebody to protect my standing as a _governess_."

"This is the way the world works, Callista," he murmured. "As a governess, you were at the mercy of other people's _whims_. Anybody off the street could have assaulted you, and the only reason they wouldn't have gotten away with it was because your uncle was in the Watch. Now, if we play things right, they will get out of your way as you pass. You'll be untouchable. You'll be safe, and strong, and dangerous - and because people will know that, they won't cross you. They'll be safe, too. No more of this."

She looked at him, face feeling over-tight, heart feeling leaden.

"You did the right thing tonight, by coming to get me. I've almost got the names of the assassins out of her. Hume is sure he got all of them, but we both know better - and if we can put up wanted posters, these gelded assassins will stumble into the light and be swept up by the Watch like refuse. And now we know of another enclave of witches. Think- if we root out evil at its source, not once, but _twice_ - if we take down real beds of heresy-"

"The people will feel safer," she finished.

"Exactly. And we'll be legitimized in the eyes of the rank and file Overseers. We will have led two mighty charges against the enemy. They love that sort of thing." He smiled.

"We're still torturing a young woman," Callista said. "We ripped her _tooth_ out."

"I've seen much worse done to people with far less blood on their hands. Think, Callista, of how many families her blade has sundered. Think of how much death she's brought. The number of deaths you've experienced in your life - that's probably a pittance to what she's _done_."

Slowly, Callista nodded.

"You still have a soft heart," he murmured. "But that's okay.I'm glad to see it. After the Morlish men, I'd been afraid I'd lost it. You'll be my conscience."

"As long as I don't get in the way?"

He chuckled. "I don't think you'll ever get in the way. Now, sit here while I finish up. I'll take care of her and the body. I'll have to think of some story I can tell to explain how I encountered another heretic so soon after the last, and it might be more plausible if it didn't happen here."

"Sokolov-"

"Will have to be trusted for now. The brandy should help with that."

He released her hands and stood, but lingered a moment until Callista lifted her head. He offered her his old charming smile, then went to hall.

Then he swore, loudly enough to wake the dead. His footsteps pounded in the hall, until he appeared in the doorway.

"She's gone!" he hissed.

Callista was on her feet and at his side in an instant, and together they went back to the kitchen. The bonds had been cut, coarsely by one wrist, then with careful, precise practice at all other points. They hadn't checked her for knives.

"She can't have gone far," Callista said. "With the wound to her leg, and the loss of her powers-"

Martin ran to the windows, throwing open the shutters and craning his head out over the side. "Check the other exterior walls!" he shouted, and Callista nodded, rushing to the other rooms. She even checked the sitting room window, as ridiculous as it seemed.

She found nothing.

Martin met her by the dried blood by the window. "Get your things," he said. "You're coming with me back to Holger. Now."

She didn't argue. Five minutes later, she had a small satchel filled with a spare uniform, her gun, and the items she'd need in the morning. Martin was already waiting by the door. On her walk from the bedroom to the door, she glanced along the hall.

There was a spot of blood by the closet door, streaked along the floor, from when she'd stuffed Billie in the closet earlier.

It wasn't until after they'd locked the door and gone halfway down to the street that she remembered that she'd already cleaned that up.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

That night, she didn't sleep. It took several hours for Martin to declare that the room he'd found for her was safe enough, and she spent the time sitting in his office, staring at the fire. Even after he led her down to the bowels of the building, past the kennel door and over to an oddly-placed bust of Holger, she didn't feel sleepy. Exhausted, yes, and very done with being conscious, but there was just enough fear in her to keep her alert.

"Here," Martin said. "You press his eye. The door opens. It can be locked from the inside, and I would like you to do that."

She nodded, watching as the heavy stone door rolled up into the ceiling. The winches that made it move must have been huge. She thought she could hear them rumbling.

It revealed a very bare, very clean room. There was a narrow cot bed, borrowed from the barracks, a desk, and a chair. An old rug was stretched across the floor.

"I would have thought," she said, stepping inside, "that Campbell's private chambers would be more... decorated than this."

"They were," he said, dryly. "You wouldn't have liked it. I had it all cleaned, top to bottom."

"So it's not a private room anymore," she said.

"No, it's not. I would have done it myself, but there was nowhere else I was comfortable putting you." He motioned to a slot up near the ceiling that had been newly filled-in with bricks. "There was a window there. Once we're sure it's safe, I'll have them unbrick it, but it was only street-level. Not the best source of light, or fresh air."

"I understand."

"I'll have your hound retrieved from the apartment in the morning, and set up in one of the kennels across the way," he said. "And I'll bring your food myself, or send Windham to do it. We'll rap on the door, like this," he said, and struck his hand against the wall in a short, but distinctive, pattern. "There is a sword by the cot and a gun in the desk drawer," he added.

"Thank you."

He nodded, trying to hide his grimace. "You'll be here for- several days. You can obviously leave during the day to do your duties around the office, but I'd prefer it if you stayed within the building. We'll sweep your apartment, and I'll get Billie's face posted on every street corner. It should only be a couple days."

"It's fine," she said, sinking into the chair by her desk.

"There's a music box on the bottom of the desk, as well," he added. "Same system as-"

"_Thank you_, Martin," she repeated. "You should go. Sleep, or set up the raid. I'll be fine."

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Of course. Sleep well, Miss Curnow," he said, and his lips did quirk almost to a smile.

She smiled back, tiredly.

"I'll see you in the morning."

And she did; she napped fitfully, then rose shortly after what she supposed _must_ be sunrise, given the sounds outside her room. No light filtered in and the room was dark aside from her candles, however, and the switch to the electric bulbs was across the room. She resolved to get a few more reliable, easy-to-use lanterns that evening to put by the bed. With the lights fumbled on, she dressed, then received breakfast from Windham.

And then her day began in full.

* * *

The raid on Rudshore had only been a partial success. They did find three of Daud's old men in the Commerce building, along with a depleted cache of weapons and supplies. Only one of the men was captured, and he broke the capsule in his tooth before any information could be extracted. Still, Hume and Martin declared it a victory, combined with the wanted posters Martin had printed. If anybody questioned where Martin had received his information, they didn't do it where she could hear. Callista penned an announcement for the propaganda officer, and it boomed across the city that evening.

The infamous assassin Daud was dead, executed by the Abbey of the Everyman; his fellow assassins were routed, their base destroyed. The Regent sent a formal letter thanking the Abbey for its services to Dunwall.

It was a win, to be sure, but when she and Martin toasted over dinner, it felt hollow. It had been an accident, not a concerted effort. Still, if it buoyed the hope of the city...

She was still living out of Campbell's room five days later when, as she finished a patrol around the memorial rooms and headed to the kennels to see Blacky, an Overseer stopped her. She recognized his voice immediately as Jasper's, the Overseer who had attended the interrogation of the Morlish thugs. He held out a letter, saying that it had appeared in one of the watchhouses, addressed to her. Did she want it destroyed, or inspected?

Callista took it without an answer. Jasper's grasp tightened for just a moment before he relinquished his hold. Thanking him, she'd stepped around him and continued on her way to the kennels.

She never made it, however; she pried open the back flap of the envelope, and pulled out another encoded letter. Thirty seconds later, she was safe in the privacy of her room, lights on. She lit one candle, in case its flame was necessary.

And then she decoded, and read.

_Dearest Callista,_

_I never meant to write so soon after my first - and last, I had hoped - letter, but I've received word that not only do you remain in Dunwall, but that you are working alongside the High Overseer. My sources are varied and not all trustworthy, so what I've heard in fits and starts is no doubt wrong, or exaggerated. I can't comprehend a world in which you are feared, and yet there are whispers that you are more dangerous than Teague Martin._

_I feel responsible. I told you to go to him for help, and so I sent you straight into his path. I never expected, though, that he would take any interest in you, beyond maybe a passing physical fancy. What has happened?_

_The news has spread; the Empress is found._

Callista paused, frowning. He had to be close, then, to have heard the news and then passed this letter into her hands in such a short amount of time.

_Everywhere, there's some level of rejoicing, but I can't join in. I've heard the Abbey was involved and so, therefore, were you. Which means that you have angered the Lord Regent. You've done Gristol a great service, but I fear the price of it._

_We only needed one foolish revolutionary in the family!_

_I will say it again: Get out of Dunwall. Get out of it quickly. Use your newfound power, if you must, but I beg you not to be seduced by it. Living in a fine set of rooms is better than your tenement, and with the plague raging, you're no doubt safer for it. I understand that, after your small, cramped life as a governess, being able to sip wine and smoke cigars must be like a dream. Abandon it. I've seen what power can do to a man. I won't let it happen to you._

_Come to Potterstead. You'll figure out what to do when you arrive. Please. Please, listen to me, Callista._

_All my love,_

_Geoff_

She stared down at the letter, then swore and tore it into pieces, before feeding each into the candleflame. She watched the paper curl and blacken, and ignored the echoing feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He didn't understand. He'd never fully understood her dreams and desires and thoughts, of course; he'd judged what was best for her, and stood in the way of all her attempts to go out to sea, or to find work somewhere, anywhere, in the whaling industry. At the time, she'd forgiven him (except for the one bleak day when she found out he'd had a man who had promised to show her the slaughterhouses arrested - she had raged for a week, before finally resigning herself to her studies).

But this wasn't just a lack of understanding. She could have forgiven that. He didn't know the details of her life now, and he wasn't entirely wrong; before Martin, she'd never killed a man, and the greatest threat she'd faced had been men leering at her in the street, or a scuffle that broke out in a tavern while she ate her dinner. He was right that the wine and the cigars were thin comfort, and barely balanced out the horror and danger.

_Potterstead_, though! To put that in a letter! To imply that the Lord Regent was against the Empire in a letter! The last letter had been dangerous enough, with its list of men she could, perhaps, trust, and confession to his crimes. But he must have been drunk when he'd written this letter, and sent it, or else she had no explanation for the sheer _stupidity_-

The door rattled in its frame, rolling up to the ceiling, and she looked up to see Martin stepping inside. She waited for the door to close behind him.

"Another letter," she said.

He blinked, taking a moment to shift gears from whatever had brought him to her. "Who delivered it?"

"Overseer Jasper," she said, grimacing. "The envelope showed no signs of being tampered with, but he didn't take many precautions to make that difficult."

"Where is it?"

"Burned to ash."

"You don't look pleased," he said, approaching the desk.

"He gave me a meeting place and accused the Regent of conspiracy," she said. "If anybody read it-"

"Do you still have the envelope?" Martin asked.

"Yes," she said, and handed the oiled parchment over to him. He inspected it, turning it over several times.

"I agree. It doesn't look like it was opened before you," he said at last. "Is this the sort of envelope he would have picked?"

"I'm... not sure," she said.

"It would have been much easier to repackage the letter than to repair the envelope," Martin said, leaning his hip against the desk. "For safety's sake, do nothing mentioned in the letter. Don't even _avoid_ the meeting spot - act as if you never heard of it. Do you understand? I'll keep an eye on Jasper, in the meantime."

"Of course," she said, sagging back in her chair. She closed her eyes, and massaged at her temples. "I just can't figure out why he'd be so stupid, as to write all that he did. But it was his handwriting, his code. It would have been monumentally difficult to fake."

"He's scared," Martin said, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. His gloved fingertips brushed her cheekbone. "And he can't stick you in a basement room like I can."

She made a sound low in her throat, then opened her eyes, gazing up at him. "I'd appreciate a break from this, to be honest."

_"Billie_ is still out there," he replied.

"With a wounded leg. If you have to, send me with an escort. I just need some duty that takes me outside the compound."

"Wait a few more days."

"Her leg will have healed more by then. Martin-"

He pulled his hand away, waved it. "Fine," he said.

She frowned in surprise.

"I've got an errand that need to happen."

"And what about your fear?"

"_If_ I were afraid, I'd go tell the feeling to shove itself," Martin said, smirking. "Now- how do you feel about a trip to see the Empress?"

* * *

Waverly Boyle's governess of choice was a strange echo of what Callista might have become. She was thin, quiet, highly controlled. She didn't crouch on the floor next to Emily, but instead stood primly nearby, watching the girl struggle with her sums. And when the guard announced Callista, and Emily waved her away, she hesitated only a moment. Her brow furrowed.

When she passed Callista on her way out of the room, she gave her one appraising look, and said nothing.

The guard shut the door behind her, leaving Callista and Emily alone.

"What took you so long?" Emily asked, pushing away her book and climbing out of her chair. "I sent for you this morning."

"I had things to set in order at the Abbey, Your Highness," she replied, easily. Martin hadn't been able to give her the reason behind the summons, though he hoped it was the girl reaching out to them, strengthening their alliance. Burrows, she'd noted with relief upon entering the room, wasn't in attendance. "How may I be of service?"

Emily hopped up into the window seat. She was still dressed all in white, though her clothes were new, now, and finely trimmed with expensive lace. Her hair was pulled back from her face with an elegant headband. "I wanted to know what's going on in the Abbey. Burrows doesn't tell me anything that I believe. He never goes into enough depth, either."

Callista glanced at the door. "This could be delivered publicly, you know. Instead of shutting out the guards-"

"I _always_ shut out the guards," Emily said. "Besides, I don't want to hear what you'd say in public. I want to hear what you'd say to _me_." Her gaze was still sharp and strong, and when she fixed it on Callista, Callista felt the slight urge to bow.

She resisted, and instead settled into the chair that the governess had vacated. "Very well. The Abbey is increasing its patrols of the city, as we believe that in times of fear, more people will turn to the Outsider, which will, in turn, propagate the plague. We have arrested twenty-eight souls on charges of heresy, and are investigating two others who have been reported but who have been evicted from their homes. Their current locations are unknown, but we usually find people in their situation within three days."

"What does the Watch think?" Emily asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The Watch. Waverly told me the other day that the Watch and the Abbey don't get along very well."

"What do you think of Waverly?"

"She's like Burrows, but I don't think she's picked a side yet. Except she wants my support. I know that. So what about the Watch?"

She was determined.

"We have had... clashes," Callista admitted. "Brief ones. Many of the Overseers on patrol think that the Watch overreaches or doesn't do enough. There is not much order to their objections. The High Overseer and I, of course, support an alliance, but it is taking longer to convince the men of that."

"Is it because Burrows pays the Watch?" Emily asked.

Callista flushed. "Ah- at a basic level, yes."

"It's not actually him paying them, you know. It's the Boyles. Waverly doesn't like who Lydia is funding, though. She says it's leading to more- more- divisiveness. That was the word she used."

"Internally?"

"No, between the Watch and the city. She said that Lydia likes to give it to the passionate people, but the passionate ones are the ones who like to make trouble."

Callista filed that away. "My uncle- if I might speak of him?"

"I liked Captain Curnow."

"I'm... glad to hear it, though don't say it publicly."

Emily beamed, for just a moment. "We're _not_ in public right now, remember? I can say whatever I want."

Callista glanced around, at the service hatch near the top of the wall, and at another side door. She cleared her throat, and came closer. "But perhaps not so loudly. People could still be listening."

"... I know." Emily's smile turned sour, grim, then fell completely. "But your uncle?"

She nodded. "He did not approve of how the Overseers were acting. He said they were causing more fear than they were settling, and that they were often brutal to innocent people. Beyond that, though, they were arrogant, and did not appreciate the Watch. As for the Watch... many of them had lost family to the Overseers, or just thought that the Overseers were all uncontrollable zealots. So there were clashes."

"Is that all true?"

"As far as I can see, yes. We're working to leash our men more. Campbell was a poor influence on them."

"Is that why your uncle killed him?"

Callista considered, then nodded.

"I hated him anyway," Emily sighed. "But that's good. I don't want people to be scared. I want the Outsider stamped out, because he helped kill my mother, but I want the people to be _safe_, not... scared. The only person I want to be scared is Burrows."

"Your thoughts are good, Your Highness." She looked at the girl's drawn features, the twist in her fingers as she clutched at the hem of her breeches. "... But you should take time to relax. To find your balance."

"I don't get time for that," she said, shrugging. "It's all sums and geography and history, then talking with _Burrows_, then meals with him or with other people I don't want to see. And when I sleep, I-" She cut herself off, shook her head. "I like drawing, though."

"Drawing is very good."

Emily nodded, nibbling at her bottom lip. She clearly wasn't sure how much she wanted to confide in Callista. She had her personal, internal life locked down tight, letting out only the determination and rage.

_How she must cry at night, when she's alone_, Callista thought, but said nothing.

"A woman came to paint my portrait yesterday," Emily said, propping her chin on her fist, legs swinging as she twisted and looked out the window.

"A woman?" Callista asked, frowning. "Not the Royal Physician?"

"No, he's supposed to come next week."

"Who was the woman?" Callista asked, running through the list of known associates of the Regent. No artists were on it, save for Lydia Boyle and her skill with the harpsichord. Certainly no painters.

"Her name was Delilah. She used to be a friend of my mother's, I think. She told me nice stories."

Callista's hand stilled on her knees. "Delilah?"

"Yeah. She had short hair, and was really, really pale. And wore gloves. I didn't know you could wear gloves and paint."

_Witch_, her thoughts hissed. That was, if Billie could be believed - but given the frustration and desperation that had been in her voice whenever she'd talked about Delilah the witch, Callista couldn't find a reason to doubt her. This was the woman, then, who had brought down the Empress's killer and his whole order.

Maybe it was nothing. If she really had been an old friend of Jessamine Kaldwin's... if she'd known who Daud had killed...

"Her sketches were really nice," Emily continued. "Burrows hired her. She said he had known her as a girl, too. I think she said something about being Sokolov's apprentice? I left then, though."

"Did you ever feel unsafe?"

Emily shrugged. "Not really. She was weird, I guess. Distant. Spoke strangely. But Sokolov's strange, too. Maybe it's something in the paint. Mother always told me not to eat my crayons and pigments."

"She was a smart woman," Callista agreed, slowly rising from her chair. "Have you been drawing?"

"Sort of." Emily turned to look at her. "My governess doesn't approve of it because she says I should only draw when it's time for art lessons, but Lady Boyle told her to knock it off."

"Can I see?"

"It's private," Emily said.

"Of course," Callista said with as soft a smile as she could manage.

"You look different," Emily said, kicking her legs against the windowseat's bulk, the strike of her heels drawing dull booming sounds from what must have been a storage space. "You kind of looked like a governess the last time I saw you. Now you don't."

"Well, you still look every inch the Empress, my lady," Callista said, straightening uncomfortably.

"Have you killed anybody?"

Callista opened her mouth, but couldn't find words.

"You look like you've killed people. I think, anyway. You don't look mean, though. Not like the man who killed my mother."

_Ah_. There was an opening. "I have some good news for you, my lady."

It was Emily's turn to go very still.

Callista approached, and dropped to one knee before her. "The man who killed your mother- did you ever see his face, behind the whaling mask he wore?"

Emily nodded, slowly. "He didn't wear one."

"Was his face craggy and marked with scars? Did he wear a red coat, and black gloves?"

She nodded again, hands clutching the hem of her shirt.

"He is dead, my Empress. The High Overseer shot him through the skull. His name was Daud, and we have routed his men, the ones wearing the masks."

Emily didn't move, but she let out a high, soft whine. Her expression grew rigid and tight as she fought to control herself.

"Before he died, he was pathetic, stumbling and falling before us. He suffered."

"Good," Emily whispered.

"His name was Daud," she repeated. "And we have our suspicions as to who paid him. He was a hired assassin."

"It was Burrows, wasn't it?" Emily asked in a sharp, cracked whisper, leaning forward. "It was him, wasn't it?"

Callista considered. Could the girl be trusted to control herself around the man, if she had her suspicions confirmed? It wouldn't matter what Callista told her, though- she would always suspect. She was a clever girl.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, almost certainly."

"I knew it. I knew he had something to do with it. I heard the Pendletons talking about him- and he was always so _bitter_ to mother- I'll kill him," Emily replied, her voice becoming cold and calm. "I'll stab a pencil in his eye. I'll gut him. I'll-"

"There are other ways," Callista said, reaching out with one hand. Emily didn't flinch, so she settled it on the girl's shoulder. "A man like him fears being discovered, and having everything he has built stripped from him, more than he fears death. Although he fears death a great deal, you're right. The High Overseer and I-"

"I want him _dead_, Miss Curnow. Make the High Overseer shoot him like he shot D-Daud."

"Wouldn't you rather see him in chains?"

"If he's in chains, he can always escape," Emily replied, brow furrowing.

Callista swallowed. "I can't make the High Overseer do anything, your Highness- and I don't think he will believe killing the Regent himself would be good for the city."

"I don't care about the city!"

"You will," Callista said, squeezing the girl's shoulder.

Emily fell silent, mouth working, jaw clenched, fidgeting as she thought. She was filled with rage and frustrated power, power she believed with all her might was rightfully hers. It was a dangerous combination for such a young girl, who couldn't be expected to control all her impulses forever.

"Then tell me," Emily said, "the name of somebody like Daud. Somebody I can hire to kill for me. Or somebody like the Pendletons, who I can hire and use and then abandon if it gets dangerous. I need people like that. _He_ has people like that. Maybe even that painter-"

Callista grimaced. "Lady Emily-"

"_Tell me_. I order it. I command it."

"... I know of a woman named Billie," she said, looking away. "Though I don't know how to find her, and I know that she's injured. The Abbey is searching for her now. She used to work with Daud."

"Can she appear and disappear like him?" Emily asked. "I think- I think I remember a woman, from when they-"

The words fell off.

"No, she can't," Callista said. Was it better that she didn't think Billie had been involved? "She might not even be in the city anymore, though."

"That's the best you have to offer?" Emily asked, and Callista looked up to see her scowling.

"It is. I'm sorry."

Emily sighed, then nodded. "It will have to do. I want _you_ to find her-"

"I can't," Callista said.

"Why not?"

"Because she broke into my apartment, and if- _when_ Martin finds her, he'll have her killed," Callista responded. "This isn't something we can do for you. The Abbey is searching for her to strike her down, not to hire her for the you."

Emily hunched down in her seat, thinking. "He'd kill her for you?"

"Yes."

"He's a lot like Corvo, then. For my mom. Isn't he?"

"I think there's... quite a bit of difference," Callista said, flushing.

"But he likes you and he's determined to make sure you're safe. That's... really good. I think."

Callista said nothing.

Emily watched her, then shrugged and looked out the window again. "You can go, I guess. I'll have somebody else find her for me."

"Be careful with who you ask."

"I'm not a child, Miss Curnow," she said, and for a moment, Callista almost believed it.

She let herself out of the room.

* * *

It was drizzling when Callista stepped out of the car a few blocks from Sokolov's apartment, and she tugged up her collar against an errant chill. In another month it would be truly warm again, bordering on hot, but the rains would only pick up in intensity as the wet season began in truth. The dry cold of a few months before seemed like a distant dream.

There was only half a chance that Sokolov would even be in residence, she reminded herself as she walked quickly across the street and turned a corner. He could be at the Cat, or the Royal Academy, or any number of other places. It would have been better to send him a note, scheduling her next sitting for the painting, but Emily's contorted features were burning in her brain. A terrified, angry girl, in proximity to a possible witch…

She couldn't leave it be.

There were guards out front of Sokolov's building. That was reassuring. She passed under the awning and pulled her identification papers out of her pocket.

"Callista Curnow, assistant to the High Overseer," she announced.

"Outsider's eyes," one of the guards said.

_Oh_. Reginald Black.

"He wasn't joking, was he?" Black said, coming down a few steps closer. "About the assistant bit? And here I thought that was code for-"

"You'll do well to watch your tongue, Officer Black."

"Captain Black," he said, flushing red. "You're here to see the doctor?"

"Yes, if he's in. I just have a few questions for him." She straightened, held her head a little higher. She knew she looked impeccable, save for the dampness from the rain. Her uniform was pressed and starched, her leather belt was polished, the sash and banner brilliant red and hanging proudly around her waist. She kept her expression very still.

"He's in, but he has company."

"I won't be long," she said.

He inspected her closely, then turned away, shaking his head. "Right. I'll buzz up."

He glanced back at her a few more times as he spoke into an intercom, and Callista waited, fighting every urge to fidget. It was important that she maintain a calm, confident air around the Watch, both because of her uncle and because of the more widespread tensions in the city. Besides, it was just a bit thrilling to show this man, who had nearly arrested her, who had mocked her, just how far she had come. She wished she kept cigars on her, as Martin did, even though this was hardly the time or place.

Reginald stepped away from the intercom box. "Right. He'll see you. Go on in."

"Thank you, Captain Black," she said, and waited for him to open the door. He did so after only a few seconds' silent protest.

She was met by a maid just inside the door, who led her up the stairs to the library they'd sat in briefly the last time she'd visited. There were two half-empty glasses on the table, Callista noted, one of which held an amber liquid – maybe the Kings Street Brandy that Martin had sent over, given the shape of the glass? – while another held a pungently fragrant wine. There were lipstick marks on the wine glass.

The maid didn't move to clear them away. Afraid to waste the alcohol when the glasses' owners might return soon?

Callista strolled along the bookshelves, idly worrying at one of the seams of her gloves. There were books on the sea here that she had never seen before; manuscripts and monographs on leviathans and other deep beasts, treatises on the uses of whaling oil, field journals of trips to Pandyssia. Her teacher's mind stirred at all the knowledge on offer. For the briefest moment, she considered what it would have been like if the Academies had accepted women, and if she'd known they held just as much knowledge about whaling as the ships at sea did. Maybe things could have been different.

"Well, what is it?" Sokolov interrupted, and she turned to face the doorway. His lady called wasn't with him, whoever she was. "If it's your portrait, it will have to wait. Schedule it ahead of time."

"It's not the portrait. I have a few questions for you, though."

"Are letters not good enough for the Abbey these days?"

She frowned. _Ornery man_, she though; he'd been decent enough the other night, but now she felt just as pinned by his glower as when he'd commented on her resemblance to a plague rat. "Letters can be read, and I was already in the neighborhood." A lie, but an easy one. They were growing simpler by the day to manage. "Did you know that Lady Emily is having her portrait painted?"

"Yes, two days from now. It's on my calendar, Miss Curnow. I'd appreciate it if you would-"

"Not by you," she said.

The words hung in the air, thick and liquid and moldering. Sokolov's glower turned to a scowl, before he shrugged and turned away. "Not unheard of, exactly."

"So you weren't aware, then, that a woman named Delilah had her sit for a portrait?"

"Delilah!" he responded with a bark of incredulous laughter. "Really, _Delilah_? Who the Void recommended _her_?"

"So you know her?" Good; Emily might've been right about the apprentice bit. Originally, she'd supposed he might know her because he'd helped schedule her, but while his lack of awareness about her was worrying (did Burrows no longer trust him?), perhaps this was better.

"She was one of my apprentices, and she knew Jessamine," Sokolov said, picking up his cup of brandy. He sniffed. "Very bold, that one, but I can't imagine why Hiram would hire her. He's a traditionalist. She's… emphatically not."

"No?"

"No, she uses bright colors, and sees strange planes in people's faces. Her work looks- possessed."

Callista frowned. "Bright colors. I- may have seen her work before, then," she said, seeing before her the portrait in Barrister Timsh's stairwell, and the painting he had fretted over that had been returned to him. "Do you know if she ever painted Arnold Timsh?"

Sokolov snorted. "You know, he's probably who recommended her to Hiram. Before she left the fold, so to speak, she already had him wrapped around her finger."

"Did you ever think she might have an interest in the Outsider?"

"Hm." He finished off his glass, then set it aside. "She once told me my own interest in the Void was foolish fancy. But given her paintings, and the way she shut herself away… it's possible. Definitely possible. Why?"

"Because there are rumors that she's a witch," she said, lifting her chin. "And, of course, a witch couldn't be allowed to paint the Empress's portrait."

"Hmph. I suppose not. If I were you, though, I'd look into how Hiram found her; if it's through Timsh, the arresting her for heresy either won't work or will anger the Lord Regent. And I'm guessing you don't want that?"

Callista frowned. "I want the safety of the Empress, first and foremost."

"Of course," Sokolov said, reaching for a dish of nuts set out.

"Thank you for your assistance."

"Martin," he replied, "sent me a very nice set of artefacts yesterday."

_And you're afraid of being replaced at court_, Callista added, silently.

"But if you'll excuse me, I have a portrait to get back to," he said. "I'll have the maid show you out."

"I can find my own way, I think," she said, leaving the bookshelf. By the time she reached the door to the hall, Sokolov had his mouth open to protest, but before he could speak or she could exit the room, Lydia Boyle reached the threshold.

Callista blinked, rapidly, wracking her brain to make sure her identification was correct. It wasn't Waverly, of course, and Esma was supposed to be the great beauty of the three. Lydia - if it was Lydia - was plainer than Waverly, but had a mischievous smile, and fine fingers - suited to a harpsichord player.

Callista inclined her head.

"Lady Boyle."

"This is Miss Curnow, from the Abbey," Sokolov said, clearing his throat. He sounded less than pleased.

"Yes, we've met," Lady Boyle said. "Briefly, at Attano's execution. The weeks seem to have treated you well, Miss Curnow. Adapting to Abbey life?"

"Well enough," Callista said, straightening. "And I should be getting back, in fact."

"Do stay," Lady Boyle said. "Have you seen Anton at work? He's a master with a brush."

"I have," she said. "In fact, we have a portrait in progress."

"_Do_ you," she purred. "I thought I was the only canvas in his studio."

Callista hesitated. Was it bad form to admit to that? She glanced to Sokolov, who was hiding his scowl by turning to pour himself more brandy.

Brandy from the High Overseer, and not from the Regent or his lover.

_Ah_. "Of the High Overseer," Callista said. "He's often busy, so I drop by on occasion to consult on the details that can be taken care of without him here to pose."

"Be careful, Miss Curnow. Anton is very good about getting fine ladies alone and naked in his studio," Lady Boyle said with a small laugh. She left unsaid, _Rumors are a dangerous thing, you know - there are bad reasons to be associated with powerful men_.

Yes, this woman's goals were quite different from Waverly's. It made Waverly seem like an ally by comparison. Callista filed the observation away. "It is a good thing, then, that the Abbey teaches self-control and denial. I believe I can withstand whatever temptations he dangles before me." She said it with as light a smile as she could manage.

Sokolov snorted. "Miss Curnow," he said, "is hardly my type. And, as she said, she has business to attend to. The Abbey does not run itself."

"No," Lady Boyle said. "I suppose it doesn't. Though with the populace dwindling, I can't imagine its coffers are very full anymore. Do let me know if the High Overseer would like to talk finances, hm?"

"We are self-sufficient, Lady Boyle. We are not like the City Watch."

"Well, the offer is open," she said, and shrugged.

Callista said nothing in response.

Lady Boyle waited just a moment longer, then waved a hand. "I'll see you upstairs then, Anton?"

He grunted in response, but she was already gone. Callista moved to follow her, but stopped as Sokolov's hand closed around her wrist.

"Do not mention you saw her here," he said, voice low. "Her coming down here was a test. Her position is an open secret, but if you spread it, she could use it against you."

"Discretion. I understand," she said, eyes fixed on the path Boyle had taken.

"I'm having a maid escort you out, so you don't get your nose into anything else you can't handle," he said, and reached for the pull by the door. She heard a bell ring in the distance. "And next time, _schedule_, Miss Curnow."

"I will. How about tomorrow morning, for my portrait?"

"I'm giving a lecture," he said.

"I'll come."

He shook his head. "No Abbey representatives in the Academy. It hampers the progress of science."

"I can come dressed down."

"No women, either."

The maid's footsteps sounded in the hall, and Sokolov let go. "The day after," he said.

"The day after, then. Around lunch?"

Her only answer was a _hmph_ low in his chest.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The next day, Callista left the stifling corridors of the Abbey for the fetid air of the docks near Rothwild's processing plant. Martin was in a meeting, and Windham hadn't been around - that she could tell - to report back to him. She took her pistol and Blacky, and she hoped that when Martin found out she was gone, he would simply shrug. He needed to adjust.

She couldn't be locked in that basement forever, after all, if the work was going to get done.

There had been three checkpoints between Holger and the slaughterhouse wharfs, and she'd passed through all of them without a problem. It seemed knowledge of her and acceptance of the legitimacy of her rank was spreading; that was a good sign. It meant, at the very least, that the Regent wasn't telling the rank and file Watch officers to restrict her movements, to hassle her, to delay her, which in turn meant he didn't see her as a threat or that he didn't dare risk appearing fractious. Either one helped them.

The road ended where the high retaining wall dropped off to the shore, by a platform elevator used to bring goods up and down the wall to the docks below. There were no seats nearby so she stood at the edge, hand resting on Blacky's head. From there, she could see out to the wide mouth of the Wrenhaven, and beyond it, maybe, to the open ocean.

Dinner the previous night had been quick and slightly strained. Martin had been distracted by something - a matter of policy, perhaps, or theology. She'd mentioned, briefly, that the Empress had said something of interest, that it may have been an opening at the Regent, but that she'd need to explore further.

He hadn't pressed, and that had been strange.

It felt wrong to be angry at their would-be-assassins, not for their violence, but for their intrusion into the rhythm they'd established. Martin claimed to not be afraid for her, but his words and actions didn't match his platitudes. And she responded to that fear, withdrawing and sneaking out and-

And this was the first year she'd lived with Geoff all over again, with added danger and the constant tickle of deep attraction.

She glanced down at the hound. For all _his_ history, he had become a quiet, observant thing, that bristled around Overseers and other hounds, but was placid at her side. Perhaps he was enjoying the easy retirement. Her thoughts drifted to Potterstead, or to any city dotting the Gristol coast. Away from the plague, away from intrigue, with a hound and a pistol... even if it took her years to meet up with Geoff again, perhaps he had a point.

Perhaps staying here was only twisting her. Replacing reasonable fears with things nobody should ever have to worry over.

She sighed, and sought out the shape of ships dotting the bay. There were a few, still, the whaling trawlers that were still filtering back in, allowed through the blockade because nobody else had the industry to handle the thrashing behemoths aboard or the men who had suspended them above the great decks. The sea certainly twisted _them_. Even before Geoff had begun telling her horror stories about the violent dry-docked whalers his men had to put down like rabid dogs, she'd read the narratives herself, eager for any connection to the life at sea. She'd read them, cover to cover, each five or ten times. She'd even read books on factory management, after Geoff had made it very clear that she was never to step foot on a ship, hoping that perhaps she could work in Rothwild's slaughterhouse, overseeing the work of taking each great beast down to its component parts.

And every book, even the driest treatise supporting the trade, was clear on one thing: hunting and butchering the beasts, hearing their songs, made the workers different. It made them violent, independent, something other than a civilized man.

Geoff had never understood the attraction, but it had gone deep. It still writhed below her breastbone, though the sight of water no longer made her antsy. The High Oracle's warning rested in the back of her mind, cautioning her against losing herself.

But it's call was- undeniable.

Beneath her hand, Blacky shifted, then twisted his head about. She felt his low growl before she heard it. It grew in intensity; whoever was approaching hadn't stopped, not even at the bared fangs, the slavering jaw. She turned her head as well.

Martin was roughly twenty feet away, in full uniform, unaccompanied.

She frowned. He didn't quite look real, in the mid-day sun. She realized then that she'd largely only seen him indoors, or in the confines of a railcar. Once or twice she'd talked with him out in the yard, but to see him unexpected on the streets of larger Dunwall-

Blacky barked.

"Shh," she said, head jerking down. She dropped her hand to the scruff of his neck and took a tight grip. The hound shifted his weight between his forelegs, then huffed and went slack beneath her touch. She released him, slowly, and he sank down onto his belly, head up and alert, but the rest of him still.

"How did you find me?" she asked, when Martin was close enough that she didn't need to shout. "Is Windham skulking in the alleyways?"

"No. I just remembered your penchant for maritime death," he said, shrugging. "Do the fumes from the slaughterhouse satisfy?"

She wriggled her nose. The pungent stench had long ago become simply background to her thoughts.

"I don't know how you can stand it," he said, stepping past her and settling down on the ground, legs dangling over the edge of the retaining wall.

"It doesn't smell much different than the interrogation room, or the holding cells," she said. "It's fresher than the sewers, at least. More honest. Fewer river krusts."

He snorted. "I've always found that the perfumed halls of the Cat smell best out of the city's offerings, to tell the truth."

"What, with the underlying odor of desperation, loneliness, spilled expensive alcohol, and the river running just below it all?"

"That's what makes it such a fine vintage," he said. He had folded his hands in his lap and was looking out at the sea. He didn't seem worried, or angry at her leaving, which eased the tension on some of the many taut threads inside of her. His possessiveness had been momentary, fleeting; she had reminded him of her independence.

Perhaps her capacity for violence should come next, though the governess still residing inside of her quavered at the thought.

"Are you out for a stroll, or do you need me back at Holger?" she asked.

"Both and neither." He twisted, looking over his shoulder at her. "The lead you mentioned last night. What is it?"

"That witch that Billie mentioned," she said, after a moment's thought. "She might have been hired to paint the Empress's portrait, and she used to be Sokolov's apprentice."

"That's worrying," he said, frowning slightly. "Hired by the Regent, I presume?"

"The Empress thinks so. As does Sokolov. But while Sokolov agreed that she might be inclined to witchcraft, he's doubtful the Regent would have hired her knowing that."

"It's true. That seems... foolish of him. It leaves him vulnerable to our investigations." Martin quirked a brow and patted the stone next to him.

She shook her head. "Plausible deniability, though... if he never knew, and she never said, it's not his fault. It's not enough to do anything with. We don't even know if painting involves her witchcraft, though I've seen her work. It's quite- peculiar."

"Will she be coming back for a second session?"

"I would assume so. The portrait can't be finished yet."

"Then we wait on that. We'll have to ask Waverly Boyle to have her governess keep an eye on the schedule, and alert us. We can happen to drop in next time."

Callista nodded, slowly. "And how do we hook our quarry?"

"We may not be able to. It will rest on proving that he knows about her tendencies."

"He may have known her as a girl," Callista said.

"Look into it. You said she was Sokolov's apprentice?"

"Yes. I'm seeing him tomorrow to talk further, and so he can continue work on that painting of me."

Martin's lips curled, and he looked back out over the water. "Good, good. Well, on to the second order of business, then. Our friend Sister Anise has returned."

Callista frowned. "I see. This despite our sending our first report?"

"She hasn't given a straight reason for returning, but I assume it's because of the reappearance of the Empress, and the other... happenings. The High Oracle must want one of her own observers." He shrugged. "Besides, our letter can't have reached the Oracles yet. We may hope that she'll be recalled soon."

"Do you think the High Oracle approves of... the current state of the Abbey?" Callista asked, glancing around. The streets were empty. Five blocks up there was a Watch post, but when she'd passed by, the lone man on duty had been deep in a seedy novel.

"Who knows?" Martin asked. "Anise would like to see you, of course. I'm sure keeping tabs on your developing role is high on their list of priorities. And given your sex, they might be interested in- laying claim to you. Having you represent both aspects of the Abbey."

"You don't have to worry about that."

"I'm not," he said, and pushed himself back up to his feet. He peered down over the edge to the quay below, then turned to her, crossing his arms over his chest. "... You're free to come and go as you please now, without checking in."

Callista's brows lifted in question. "Has Billie been found, then?"

"No. But keeping you trapped isn't exactly useful to me, and you're no fool. Blacky and your pistol should be able to take care of any daylight adversaries. How's your aim these days?"

"Better than when you hired me. Not as good as I'd like."

Martin looked down the avenue. "We could practice."

"The yard is quite crowded, and I doubt Brother Hume would resume our lessons with much grace."

"You did give him Rudshore," he reminded her. "But I didn't mean at the yard. We have a wide open field here, and half the buildings are abandoned, and the tenants of the others are more than happy to stay inside."

"That's-" She hesitated, searching for the right word. "Improper," she settled on.

"The Watch does it all the time," he said, and began walking towards an empty, upturned crate about a hundred yards away. He stopped from time to time to scoop up bottles and bricks from the gutter by the side of the street. She watched, and Blacky watched with her. He leaned against her ankle, and as Martin got further away, she could feel him relax.

"Learn to like him," she murmured. Blacky didn't respond, except to push harder against her ankle.

Martin returned a few minutes later, after setting up several targets for her, including what might have been a rotted apple. "From what I've seen," he said, dusting off his hands, "you get flustered under pressure, and your aim isn't what it should be. The two, of course, feed into one another. You have most of the mechanics down, but you haven't fully gotten used to a pistol yet. Does that sound right?"

"Close enough," she said, thinking back to the Morlish men. She could have been cleaner about it, certainly.

"From what I've heard," he said, "during the Trials, they test the new recruits by causing constant terror. Constant noise, or constant silence, too much or not enough stimulation... and they give them tasks. Those who buckle under the pressure don't become Overseers. Those who become hard, who can ignore the distractions, they remain. But," he said, no doubt catching the paling of her face, "I'm not going to subject you to obstacle courses. I think it will be enough just to practice."

"Over and over again until it's second nature," she said.

"Exactly."

"I didn't bring extra ammunition," she said, unholstering her pistol. It no longer felt too heavy for her.

"I have enough for two reloads, plus my own gun, though I'd prefer we each keep at least one bullet for the walk home," he said. "How's the hound around gunfire?"

"Fine, as far as I know," she said, pushing Blacky away with the side of her foot. He huffed and glared up at her, but she stepped over him anyway, closer to Martin and more in line with her targets. His lead attached to her belt, and allowed some space between them. "It's not like Havelock never practices his marksmanship."

Martin chuckled, then stepped back and watched as she settled into what she remembered of the stance both Hume and her uncle had taught her on. They'd both preferred that she hold her gun with both hands, explaining that as she was smaller and frailer than the average Watch officer or Overseer, the weight and recoil might be too much otherwise.

"No," Martin murmured, then stepped in close again. He folded his arms around her, and lightly guided her left hand off the grip of her pistol. Then his hands dropped to her hips, and he turned her so that she presented only her side to the target.

"Hume said-"

"Hume is an idiot if he thinks that pose is going to do anything except get you killed," he said. "There's no reason you can't learn to be just as accurate like this. That stance is for little children."

One of his hands lingered at her waist as he reached up with the other and guided her arm out, straight. "Of course," he added, breath sliding over her ear, "this does present the unfortunate problem that if somebody does manage to hit you, the bullet can't just pass through and happily miss every major organ. But there's such a smaller chance of getting hit at all. Understand?"

Holding the pistol one-handed, all she could focus on was keeping it up and level. "My wrist-"

"Will adjust," he said. His right hand came to rest just below her elbow. "Keep your arm just barely relaxed. The recoil will guide your hand up - let it. Then reset."

Callista licked her lips. His presence felt good - warm, enticing, reassuring. She focused on the targets down the way, and let her finger dance over the trigger.

"Good," he murmured. "Fire."

The crack of the gun echoed off the surrounding building, and behind her she could hear gulls taking off in a flurry of frightened wingbeats. One window banged closed.

"Again," he said.

She didn't even notice if she'd hit her first target before she fired again.

* * *

"He's cancelled again."

Martin's chair creaked as he leaned back in it, propping his foot against the edge of his desk. "Second time? Third?"

"Fourth," Callista responded, crumpling up the letter. The tendons on the backs of her hand pressed against the confines of her glove. "This makes it a week now."

"What's his excuse this time?"

"Something about needing to step in as a guest lecturer at the Academy," she said, shaking her head and tossing the ball of paper into the fireplace, which only smoldered. "Which, of course, I cannot attend given the current ban on women. It's as if he doesn't realize this isn't a social call about a painting."

"Perhaps he doesn't," Martin replied, letting his foot fall back to the floor and leaning forward in his seat as it rocked forward. "How clear were you?"

"As clear as I thought was prudent," she snapped, then sighed and pressed her hand to her face. "And I haven't had any luck with Lady Boyle, either, so the witch could have been to the Tower three times by now, and we wouldn't know."

"I think we'd know," he said. "Our lines from the Tower aren't as responsive as I'd like, but they're there."

"But we don't know how fast this threat is moving. For all we know, it could be over and done with."

"Leaving a living Empress. Not the worst outcome. A lost opportunity to be sure, but-"

"Stop!" she said, rounding on him. "Stop with your endless sparring. A little sympathy would be appreciated in place of all _your_ excuses and interpretations."

Martin chuckled. "Of course. My apologies - it's become a habit, I suppose. Yes, Sokolov is being incredibly evasive, and his rudeness is secondary to the risk he's putting us at. I agree. But what will you do about it? Go to the Academy and barrel your way in?"

"I might," she said.

"I'd like to see that," he agreed. "Though you might have more luck asking Lydia Boyle to get you in - she knows quite a few of the philosophers, or so I've heard."

"We have an in, if we want it. She offered us money."

Martin's pleasant expression turned dark and sour. "When was this?"

"When I spoke with Sokolov last. She was posing for him at the time. I told her we were self-sufficient."

He rubbed at his jaw. "I see. Still- that's roundabout. Perhaps a raid during his lecture..."

"Not necessary," she said, then sighed. "I hope, anyway. All we know about this witch is that she can cloud the mind. She controlled Billie's thoughts - maybe, and only a little. She remembered most of it, after all."

"Yes. That seems like something that would have the Empress calling us. And we could just set up a box with her at all times, though I suspect she'd object. So I think we can take a few days to relax, hm? Focus on the mounting death toll, and your shooting."

Callista shrugged.

She had her mouth open to inquire about the current status of Draper's Ward when a knock made her pause. Anise's voice filtered in:

"High Overseer? Miss Curnow?"

"Come in," Martin said, shooting Callista a questioning look.

She had no answer for him. Anise had been a ghost the last week, mostly shielded by her mask, always quiet. She'd been seen in all parts of the Abbey, but had not left the grounds. She'd met with Callista twice - both briefly, both oddly lacking in substance. There had just been questions about the plague, and about her health. Nothing more. Each time, she'd had her full mask in place.

This time, when she entered, the brass dome was nowhere to be seen, her eyes instead covered by the red cloth. "Good, I had hoped you would both be here," she said, shutting the door behind her. "I must say, you've established your control here quite well, though I have sensed some discord. You might look to Brother Jasper's faction."

"Already being done," Martin said, eyes narrowing. "Is your check in done, then? Will you be returning to the High Oracle?"

"Soon," she said. "We have seen, however, that something momentous will be happening in your place of power. I'm here to observe it."

Callista stiffened, then made herself move, going to the sideboard to pour drinks. "Us specifically, or just the elite of Dunwall?"

"Unclear," Anise said. "And I do not require wine or whiskey, Miss Curnow, but thank you."

Callista stopped with her hand an inch from the wine bottle. "Of course."

"How is it that you see the future, Sister Anise?" Martin asked, propping his chin on his fist. "Are they clear images, or more general impressions?"

"We see it in the stars, High Overseer, just like you see your calendars- which, of course, are man's interpretations of the movements of the heavens," Anise replied, moving to one of the chairs in a rustle of fabric. "We stare into the Void, which we have found absorbs all things, and reflects patterns back to us."

"I'm not sure I trust anybody who spends any length of time contemplating the Void," Martin said. "Some would say that sounds like heresy."

"And that would be why we haven't told many people," she said, laughing softly. "But we have our precautions. There's a tincture we can drink that purges the Void from us. We rarely need it. But it... has been useful, before."

"I'd like that in my arsenal," Martin said, voice sliding into a purr.

Callista watched the back and forth with rapt attention, as if it were a ball game of some sort. They were clearly acting in alliance, moreso than Martin and the Regent faked theirs, but there was still the ceaseless undercurrent of battle.

Martin was either combative or haughty with all he spoke to - except for her.

"I'll inquire about the possibility," Anise said, canting her head to one side. "Though I don't suppose you have many possessed captors - you shoot them all on sight."

"Is that a criticism?"

Callista cleared her throat. "I think," she said, "that I'll leave you two to your theology."

"To the Academy with you?" Anise asked.

She blanched. "I-"

"Another vision," Anise said, shrugging. "You would have done well there, if things had been different."

Callista glanced to Martin, who only shrugged. Swallowing thickly, she excused herself from the room.

* * *

The hallways of the Royal Academy, while not as full of knowledge as the libraries or the grand lecture halls which she was barred from, were filled with cabinets of curios. She passed over an hour in a single stretch, peering into each glass cabinet, inspecting artefacts from Pandyssia and the far reaches of Tyvia where men went mad in the frozen wastes. There were preserved specimens of any number of animals, and a dissected river krust which, while not attractive, was fascinating in its layers upon layers of stoney growths.

Beyond the double doors that she orbited around, she could hear Sokolov's voice booming, though the words were indistinct. She itched to open the door and stride in, take a seat in the back as if she belonged, but it had been bombastic enough to demand entrance to just this section of the Academy. Her rank and her determination had gotten her this far; they could not take her further.

So she waited and inspected teeth from a whale of a class not commonly found in any of the near waters. She crouched and studied the intricacies of a preserved root system. She was left alone, ignored by the passing porters. None offered her a seat, or a drink.

Every so often, she caught threads of Sokolov's lecture material. He was relating his most recent trip to Pandyssia, and his theories on the bull rat and its plague. Once she caught the tail end of a sentence where he implied that there had been other recorded cases of this exact plague in the Isles, but she couldn't hear beyond it to learn if he had proof.

She was meditating on the fact that she was treated better in the halls of Parliament than she was here when she heard the shuffle of bodies behind the doors. She straightened, adjusted her Abbey sash, and waited as the doors opened and students spilled out. They wore old, heavy robes that ended just above the knees, showing off shapely (and not-so-shapely) calves, pieces of history worn sloppily by young men who were no doubt brilliant but looked like they couldn't find the bristled end of a brush.

Several looked at her with interest, and a few with trepidation, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. Sokolov did not appear to be among them. Frowning, she pushed forward through the crowd, until she could peer into the lecture hall.

He was down by the podium, moving quickly toward a separate exit.

He was _avoiding_ her!

She swore and pushed past the last of the students, stalking into the lecture hall. It was a deep basin of a room, the sides pitched steeply, and she moved quickly down the stairs, ending in a gallop as Sokolov turned back, saw her, and reached frantically for the door. Behind her, porters shouted for her to stop. She ignored them.

"Sokolov!"

He got the door open and was through it and pulling it shut by the time she reached it, shoving her booted foot in the jamb. She swore again and wrenched it open, then reached out and grabbed the physician by the trailing velvet sleeve of his worn, poorly-washed robe.

"Dammit, woman!" he shouted, tugging to get free. She held fast, panting.

"Why are you _running_?"

"And what would you do if the High Overseer's hound came chasing after you!"

Callista's fingers loosened in an attempt to placate. "You've been canceling every appointment we've had for a _week_," she said. "And given how polished you sounded in your lecture, I'm inclined to believe that when you scheduled our meeting today, you already knew you'd have to cancel it. Care to explain?"

"Unhand me," he snapped.

She did. He didn't run, instead jerking his arm away and smoothing out his beard with the undeniable air of a truculent little bird.

He huffed and puffed out his chest a bit. "Well, if you _must_ know, it's because I can't find the sketches I did of you," he said, glaring. "Or the canvas I started. And I'm not in the mood to do all that establishing work again."

Callista frowned. "Can't... find the sketches?"

"Yes, I'd hired a new maid a few weeks before, and I suspect she stole them for money. Can't imagine who would have paid for sketches of _you_, but she hadn't taken the work I'd done for Lady Boyle, at least. That would have been a nightmare."

"So you've been dodging me because you're _lazy_?"

"I have better uses of my time, Miss Curnow. Surely you can understand."

One of the porters knocked rapidly on the door they'd passed through, then poked his head in. "Doctor, allow me to remove-"

"Miss Curnow can stay," he said, still scowling. "For a few minutes, anyway. Leave us."

"... Yes, Doctor," the porter said, then backed away from the door. He notably didn't close it.

Callista looked around them for the first time. They were in a short hallway that led to a few other closed doors. Sokolov reached past her and closed the door behind her, then motioned for her to follow.

"I can understand," Callista said, keeping her voice low, "but I couldn't care less about a portrait."

He bristled at that, his pride wounded. "I see."

"I needed to ask you more about your apprentice, Delilah."

"There's not much more to share. I thought I had communicated as much," he said, opening the door to a stairwell and leading her up. A few more yards of hallway and he opened another door onto what appeared to be his residential office. She wondered how often he retreated here to hide from disgruntled lovers and the Abbey.

"Sit, that chair," he said, stabbing a finger at the seat in the room that undeniably caught the best light this time of day. She settled into it, and he went to his desk, piled high with tomes and papers. He brought a paper pad with him as he settled down across from her, and as he continued to speak, he began sketching in sharp, jerking, angry motions. "She was in love with depicting what she said the Void looked like. Strange colors, distorted proportions. She learned the fundamentals well enough, and fast, but she refused to paint as patrons wished her to paint. She lost me a lot of money and a lot of patrons."

"Before that," Callista asked, sitting stiffly in place, "did she know Jessamine well?"

"Yes. She made bread in the Tower, and was about Jessamine's age. They became playmates, before Burrows was brought on by Euhorn. That's how I discovered her - I saw some of her sketches. Better that I saw them than some of Jessamine's nurses - they were sometimes violent. One showed Delilah eating Jessamine's face. Not kissing her- though there were some of those, too. No, it was more animalistic. She gave that one directly to me. Jessamine didn't see it. For the best, I think."

"So she was envious of Jessamine."

He snorted. "If you were a serving girl in the Tower, wouldn't you be? She moved on, though. When she came to work for me, she was confident, proud, arrogant."

"I can see why you eventually dismissed her," Callista said, dryly. "I can't imagine you enjoyed looking in the mirror that often."

Sokolov responded with a bark of laughter, his hand jerking across the page. "You're becoming brutal, Miss Curnow."

"And her tendencies towards heresy?"

"Average for those of artistic persuasions," he said, shrugging. "In my experience, we're all drawn in some way or another to the darker parts of humanity. Some of us like to study whale oil and its properties. Some like to consume rotted flesh and dance naked under the moonlight. And some like to paint the Void. Human nature, I'd wager. What's your failing, Miss Curnow, by Abbey standards?" He smirked.

She didn't respond.

After a few minutes' silent sketching, she hummed and mused, "If we were to attempt to remove Delilah from the Empress's court, would you assist with statements as to her past?"

"Perhaps," he said. "Though I don't see the benefit."

"We keep a witch from twisting the Empress's mind," she said.

"And leave her with a snake instead," he replied, voice flat.

She again stayed silent.

"Yes, I'll help," he said at last, putting down his pencil and sitting back. He glowered. "Does that satisfy? Will you go, now?"

Callista quirked a brow. "Do you have what you need for the portrait?"

"Enough for now. I'll send for you when it's time to lay down the tone of your skin."

She nodded, and began to rise from her seat.

Outside, sirens roared to life. An announcement. Callista stepped to the window and threw it open.

"Citizens of Dunwall: The enemy of the state and murderer of High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell, Geoff Curnow, has been apprehended by brave members of the Abbey of the Everyman.

"I repeat, Geoff Curnow, enemy of the state and known murderer, has been apprehended."

Callista couldn't breathe.

Behind her, Sokolov was silent. She reached for her throat, and felt tears beginning to build in her eyes as the announcement began its loop.

_Abbey of the Everyman_.

Jasper.

A month ago, a week ago, she would have been frantic, throwing out idea after idea, desperate to save him, desperate to use her power to carve out a little bit of happiness for herself. But the power that rested in her would always have its limits.

There were fictions in place which had to be upheld for her safety to continue.

There would need to be another denunciation. His trial would be short or nonexistent, and all that would be left would be to pronounce his crimes and her hatred for him either at his execution or over his body. Before that, there would be interrogations, tortures, and she knew her uncle.

He could take endless punishment before he would ever break, ever confess to something he hadn't done. The Regent would want him to corroborate Attano's story, after all. That it had been an elaborate plot. That it hadn't been a reaction against the corruption and cruelty of the Regent.

It would be kindest, then, to arrange for an accident.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her chest burned, her body pulsing in time with the horror building inside of her. It was _kindest_ to put him down like an injured animal. It was _kindest_ to treat him like she'd treated the thugs who'd butchered Martin's back.

And was it kind to her, to him, to never see him until she watched his corpse be brought out? It was certainly safer.

"Miss Curnow?" Sokolov asked.

"Pour us a glass of wine," she said. "And rejoice, for another enemy of Dunwall has been captured. We are bringing ever more order to the city."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

_Geoff Curnow is an enemy of Dunwall, and of the Empire. By his actions, he has sown discord, created chaos, and threatened our bulwarks against the Outsider's agents. He conspired alongside Corvo Attano, murderer of the Empress, the two working in tandem to cut off the head of this nation and drop it screaming into the Void._

Callista paused, pen poised above the page. There was a roaring in her ears that wouldn't cease, that hadn't ceased for the last several hours. It sounded like the crash of waves, or like the sucking vortex in a cavern where the sea rushed in and down into the depths of the earth. It was a dangerous sound. She could feel the edges of herself shredding from the force of it.

She knew exactly where in Holger her uncle was being kept – and he _was_ being kept in Holger, albeit with several of the Regent's guards assisting the effort. This was an Abbey victory. It would cement their place in the new regime. Whoever had done this – whoever had tracked her uncle down – was a hero. He had done well. He would be promoted.

With a strangled cry, she swept her arm across her desk, sending the paper dancing in the air and her glass of whiskey shattering against the floor.

Blacky gave an answering growl from where he paced anxiously in front of the door. He'd refused to leave her side since she'd heard the announcement. His hackles were up, his head low as he guarded her.

It was comforting, in its own way – certainly more than Martin's brand of protection ever had been. Blacky was honest. Attuned to her mood. Alert.

She sank forward, bracing her elbows on the desk and raking her hands through her hair. It wasn't fair, the sort of mental acrobatics she had to do to keep herself from screaming. And it was even less fair that they were coming so easily now. The explanations and excuses came to mind so readily: he did this to himself, it was for the good of the city, for safety, for _us_. It was for the fine whiskey now soaking into the rug, for the fact that she could pretend to have a measure of control over the world.

It was for his own comfort that she would, as soon as she had made her speech and tied up all the loose ends, send one of her men into his cell to shoot him dead, and it was a shame she would have to sacrifice a loyal Overseer to do it.

But as soon as it was done, she could bandage herself, heal each gaping wound he left with itching, festering scabs, and she could get back to the work of-

What?

Tracking down a witch who painted portraits?

What was she _doing_?

The door rumbled to life before Martin's quick, coded knock, and Blacky crouched low, growing into the slowly expanding gap between floor and door. She heard Martin's swear – soft, controlled – and struggled to keep her breathing easy.

"Call him off, Miss Curnow," Martin snapped as Blacky lunged for his boots with a snarl.

"I'd prefer to be left alone," she replied, fingers curling in her hair.

"_Callista_."

She bowed her head lower, fingers clawing. Her breath hissed through her teeth.

"... Blacky," she said, and the hound's head jerked up. She lifted her own head and stared at him, until, slowly, he backed away from the now mostly-open door. He was fixated on Martin as the man stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him.

"We need to talk."

"Give me the name," she said, "of the Overseer who brought him in."

Martin had seen the broken glass. He frowned at it, wrinkled his nose at the scent of alcohol on the air. "... Overseer Jasper. The one who brought in-"

"I remember him," she said, voice clipped.

"It will take some time for me to be able to- take care of him," Martin said. "Burrows has taken notice of him."

"Burrows," she said, "probably _pays_ him. The Abbey may not entirely know what to do with me, but _this_- is a calculated move, by somebody with much clearer political aspirations, and a more personal vendetta."

Martin worked his jaw, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. She could hear the leather of his gloves creaking. "You're probably right," he agreed.

"Who can we afford to sacrifice?" she asked, pushing back from her desk and standing.

"I don't think-"

"_Martin_," she hissed. "Give me a name. Somebody will end my uncle's suffering, do you understand?"

"... I can do it," he said. "During an interrogation, I'll take things into my own hands and-"

"No. Whoever does it is going to suffer for it," she said, approaching him slowly. Her face burned. She felt tense, too large beneath her skin. She wanted to scream, to rage, to destroy- everything. "If you don't give me a name, it will be Windham."

"He's too valuable," Martin said, regarding her warily.

"Then give me a name."

"I need time to think."

"_Fuck_ your time to think!" she snarled, and lunged for him. The roaring in her ears intensified, blotted out everything else, even Blacky's earsplitting barks. There was only sound and anger and motion as Martin backpedalled. The room was small, and his maneuvering had his back flat against the wall as her weight crashed into him. She got a hand beneath his jaw, and forced his head up. Blacky snapped at his heels, but stopped short of attacking.

Callista's other hand held the letter opener from her desk, its dull tip pressed into Martin's belly.

The animal panic in his eyes matched the bestial rage in every sinew of her body. She drank in his fear, the way he went entirely rigid. It was a concession, she knew, to how much he otherwise trusted her. Any other attacker, he would have turned on, thrown off. She wasn't good enough to best him.

But she was important enough to make him listen.

"Callista," he breathed, voice strangled by how she forced his jaw up. "Callista, don't do this."

Blacky answered with a snarl.

She was shaking. Her blood roared in her ears, and she couldn't think straight. All she could do was seethe and press harder against Martin.

Callista shook her head, violently, trying to clear out the noise. She gulped down air, pushing past the maelstrom.

She swallowed and pulled back by a fraction. "Do what?" she asked, dropping the point of the letter opener and pressing her fist against his sternum instead. She lifted her head, jerking her own chin up. "I'm not going to hurt you, Martin."

He laughed, weakly. "My back begs to differ. I- I understand that this is-"

Another deep, sucking breath, another quake of her body beneath the rushing train barreling down the tunnel of her thoughts.

"A nightmare?"

"That's one way to put it, yes," he said. She could feel him shaking as the hound paced in a tense arc around them. "I never wanted this to happen."

"Did you take steps to keep it that way?" she asked. "Did you _really_ look into who had delivered the letter the first time? How Jasper got it the second?"

His throat bobbed. His eyes darted to the hound. "No."

"Why not?"

"There was no _time_," he said. "Things have been moving so quickly."

"And there were more important matters to attend to," she spat.

He didn't respond.

He was trembling, but her muscles began to twitch and spasm, her breath refusing to come evenly, and she let out a desperate, pained cry, dropping the letter opener entirely and bowing her head against his chest. Her thoughts imploded, her head split with sudden, searing pain. Blacky immediately approached, pressing his flank to her legs, letting her know he was ready to strike.

She didn't encourage him.

"There is _nothing_ good here," she whispered when the screaming of her thoughts gave way to words once more. "Tell me one time that power kept me safe. Tell me. I can't think of a _single_ one. All it's done is paint a target on my back."

"It will come," he whispered.

"When? When I have nothing else to lose?" She lifted her head, and loosened her grip on his jaw. "I'm only in power because of you – and so I'll _always_ have something else to lose."

"You won't lose me," he said. He looped one arm around her, and when she didn't jerk away, he pulled her close. "I swear."

Her jaw tightened by degrees, his words at first soothing against her soul, but quickly drowning it, driving it deep in an attempt to salvage itself. She let out another cry, and shoved him away, slamming his back into the wall again. He hissed in pain and his grip loosened, and she backed away from him, eyes blazing. She put a hand to her head.

"_Callista_-"

She turned and stalked to her desk, sitting down and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Blacky took up position at her back, lying down with his gaze fixed on Martin. He would be her eyes and ears.

"I'm not a child or a possession to be kept safe," she said, words clipped.

"You said you wanted _safety_! That's the only way I know how-"

"Well, it's _shit_." Her fingers curled around her pen. "It's how Geoff protected me, and it has one fatal flaw. One day, you'll be dead."

Martin's breathing turned labored

She licked her dry, thin lips. "And I'll be left picking up the pieces, reconstructing the parts of me that you provided, the architecture that I _thought_ was me, but was really you all along. I refuse to do it again. _This_ is the last time," she said.

"Then what do you want of me?" he asked. His voice had moved. She turned her head to see him right by the door, ready to walk out.

Her chest tightened, but not enough to pierce through the anger wrapping around her like a body bag.

"I want to be alone," she said. "The rest I'll figure out later."

Martin nodded, jerkily, then turned and slammed the button that would raise the door. Callista turned back to her writing.

_Fear is our greatest weakness, and our greatest strength_. _It leaves us alert, but in time, it tires us, leaving cracks in our resilience, our goodness, that the Outsider can worm his way into. Geoff Curnow did not just kill a man; he made us fear. He made us panic. He made us vulnerable._

_He betrayed not only this Empire, but the safety of our spirits._

The handwriting didn't look like her own.

* * *

"… There is worth in severing ties to him," Callista said, voice rising over the courtyard. Her eyes remained firmly turned from her uncle's struggling body, pinioned in the stocks. "And there is a great temptation in it, to say, this is no longer my blood, this has no bearing on me.

"But to say that would be dishonest. I was raised by this man. I was protected by this man. His actions, his perversions, his weaknesses and his strivings created the foundation of my being, and so it would be dishonest - it would be _dangerous_ - to ignore them. I must instead root them out of my body, my spirit. I must replace them with what is good, what is controlled, what is constrained."

Her gaze was unfocused as she looked over the crowd, a mix of Overseers and citizens of Dunwall. Behind her stood Martin and Burrows, General Turnbull, the Empress, several dignitaries, and Sister Anise.

She lifted her head, the carefully rehearsed words continuing to tumble out of her mouth.

"That has been my path for the last forty-two days. And while for me it was a personal journey, it begins now for the rest of Dunwall. Look upon the traitor Geoff Curnow, note the elements of him that reside in you, and weigh them.

"Does this protect me? Does this protect others? Or does it leave me weak and vulnerable?

"The Strictures give us guidance, but they are broad, unerring truths; there are times where we may feel they do not apply. It is then that we look to the destroyers of peace to learn specifics, to learn the insidious behaviors that seem fine on the surface, but that fester and destroy when taken in by us.

"To that end, Geoff Curnow will be left out to the elements for the next three days. He will be under guard; you need not fear his escape. Come, and look on him. We will cut out his tongue and muzzle his mouth so that his words cannot infect you. Come, and judge him.

"In three days time, he will be brought to Coldridge and executed for his crimes."

She took a deep, rattling breath, keeping her chin high. There were no cheers. There was only a low murmuring, a flow of whispers. Her gaze fell at last on Geoff, who was blessedly turned away from her.

Tonight, Windham would murder him. Tomorrow, Windham would be imprisoned by his former brothers. Burrows would want custody of him, but Martin wouldn't allow it, for their own safety.

But first, two Overseers would approach her uncle with tongs and blade, and-

She turned away and stepped back onto the hastily-built platform where her fellows stood.

"A skilled speech," Burrows said, inclining his head.

Emily looked up at her with a furrowed brow, but said nothing. Waverly Boyle, just behind her, had her gaze fixed on Callista with an appraising, weighing look.

She looked- pleased.

Anise had her brass face dome in place, and Callista didn't dare look at it, afraid of seeing her own reflection. The woman was silent.

Martin, too, said nothing, and did not reach for her, but she could see the tension in his shoulders that came from resisting the urge. She kept her eyes fixed on him as Geoff began to shout.

She'd had no time to speak to her uncle, no opportunity, and now there could never be an opportunity again. The knowledge that her denunciation, her damning, would be their last interaction-

No. She couldn't think on that. She turned, and faced the crowd, standing in proper rank. Two Overseers - one, no doubt, was Jasper - had a hold of Geoff's head, and they worked to pry his mouth open. The crowd shifted, drew back. She saw some turn away, some leave- but some remained, eager for the bloodletting.

They worked a bit into his mouth that kept his jaw open. He howled. His swears were meaningless gurgles of words as they caught his tongue in the grip of the tongs, dragging it out into the open.

She was thankful she could only see a portion of it, could only really focus on the thrashing of his body in the stocks. It was more important, after all, that the people see.

They used a small blade to slice his tongue out. She'd seen it while they're prepared, earlier that morning. She watched now as Geoff howled, then shouted, then only sobbed. His body twitched and spasmed, and the two Overseers held his head down so that the blood would flow onto the pavement and not down his throat.

Her fists curled at her sides. The brilliant anger she'd felt the night before had turned dull and ashen inside of her, creating a pit in her stomach. The roaring and headache had persisted until that morning, but had stopped abruptly sometime after she'd foregone breakfast.

Martin stepped forward, to give the parting speech. She could barely track his words. Avoidance? Desperate dissociation, like that day in the railcar?

She eyed her companions on the platform. Waverly watched the proceedings in the square with keen interest. Burrows looked triumphant. Turnbull was dour, presenting an unflinching front that she didn't know how to read.

Emily was bright-eyed, alert, and terrified. Callista could see the terror in her. She remembered in a flash her own childhood terrors, and the children she'd cared for, and the urge to take the girl's hand grew immense. But Emily wouldn't take hers if she offered.

Martin's speech ended with some platitudes about lying tongues, and the crowd erupted into a triumphant roar. He turned back to her, and at last offered a small smile.

"Well," he said. "Whiskey and cigars, then?"

"Of course," Burrows said, then glanced down at Emily. "Your Highness, would you like to accompany us?"

She shook her head. "I am going to see Lord Pendleton's city estate today. He has promised to show me his hunting trophies."

Waverly snorted, but it was a faint sound, swallowed up by the noise of the crowd. Somewhere, her uncle was crying from pain, anger, and fear, but she could barely hear it. She certainly didn't want to.

Callista cleared her throat. "I'll have to excuse myself," she said. "I find I don't have the stomach for this much blood, even for a good cause."

Burrows inclined his head. "Your speech was very thoughtful," he said. "You've truly become a member of the Abbey, I think."

"Thank you," she said. "Enjoy your meeting, gentlemen. Lady."

Emily stared up at her. Her gaze was accusatory. Callista struggled to guess how she felt. Angry, that Callista could betray family so easily? No- angry that she continued to uphold the idea that Corvo Attano had killed her mother. And there, on the edges, she looked impressed. Nervous.

"We will have to have dinner together sometime, Miss Curnow," Waverly said, smoothly. Callista inclined. "I feel there is much to learn about you."

"Of course, my lady," Callista said, then descended from the platform and headed at as reasonable and stately a pace as she could manage to the railcar line.

The ride to her uncle's apartment was violent, the car jerking to a halt, then accelerating sharply. It sloshed the whiskey out of her glass and rattled her shoulders against the seat. Its aggression, however, kept the tears away. She simply bore up under it until the car rattled to a halt, then climbed out and crossed Clavering to the door to the apartment building.

The stairs up were a second trial, as welcome as the first. She left below her the dirty streets and swarming rats, focusing on a quiet place to sit and reflect waiting for her at the top of the building. Just a little time, and she would adjust. A scream, a splash of cold water to her face, a few hours of boiling rage, and just like every time before, she would become whole again.

Geoff was her uncle, her blood, but he was just another loss. She'd had many.

Callista came to her landing and slowed as she approached the door. Finally, she stopped, hand resting on the knob. She felt again the scream that was trapped in her gut, struggling, trying to rise to her throat. Just over a month ago, she'd been cataloging the contents of this apartment, dealing with a loss that wasn't quite a death, unsure of where to turn.

It had been a horrible idea to ever make this her home; she should have known better. It was like the beach house, infested with ghosts not just of the dead, but of all the opportunities and possibilities that were shut off from her. A house full of doors.

She thought of Geoff, screaming, blood filling his mouth where before he'd been eloquent, thoughtful, with an off-kilter sense of humor and a deep well of caring.

She'd done that.

Perhaps it would have been better to have cut off his roving feet, or his restless hands, but the chance of infection had seemed so much higher. She'd imagined the stumps festering, rotting, in the time before Martin's man would be able to release him from his torment. Her stomach churned. Her thoughts flew to the dead Morlish man, to the Overseer with his throat ripped out. Those had been merciful deaths.

Where had her mercy gone?

She turned, looking down the hallway. It was empty, save for her. There were no rats in this part of Clavering yet, and all her neighbors seemed to have learned from the gunshots and the intermittent presence of the Abbey to ignore the comings and goings in her apartment. _Her_ apartment.

She doubled over, vomiting, shoulders heaving, closing her eyes against the acrid stench of her vomit and the way it stained the hallway runner. Blind, she fumbled for the door, for the key tucked into her belt. The metal slipped against her gloves, and she swore, cracking open her eyelids just enough to guide the key into the lock. It turned, and she stumbled inside, wiping at her mouth with the back of her arm.

The discordant, harsh rhythms of Holger's Device met her, and she frowned.

It had been over two weeks since she'd last stepped foot in her apartment. The device had been off. Even if it hadn't been, it would have exhausted its small canister of whale oil days ago.

Her hand went to her pistol, only to find it gone. Her chest and belly tightened in fear. Martin had confiscated her gun, and anything close to a knife that had been in her room, after the incident the night before.

If she just backed up, quietly-

"Curnow."

Callista's head jerked up, searching for the source of the woman's voice. It was a familiar voice, though she couldn't place it.

Kitchen? Possibly.

"It is you, isn't it? Your High Overseer wouldn't have vomited right outside of your door, I suppose," the woman continued, pitching her voice to carry. "I need to talk to you. Consider the noise- insurance."

_Billie_.

"I'm unarmed," the woman added.

Callista didn't believe her, but she took another step anyway.

"The box isn't going to stop you," Callista said, slowly. "What kind of insurance is that?"

"Insurance that we won't be interrupted. I have news about the witch, Delilah."

Callista's legs were weak, her throat still raw, but her step quickened. "What is it?" she asked, passing through the open door to the kitchen.

Billie leaned against the counter, favoring her injured leg, face ashen. She'd helped herself to some of the tinned hagfish in the cupboards, the metal discarded behind her, the smell of brine in the air.

She unhooked a bag from her belt and tossed it onto the edge of the counter closest to Callista.

Whatever was inside had a faint odor.

"Open it," Billie said. "And consider it a peace offering."

Eyes fixed on Billie, Callista stepped forward and reached out, hooking the bag on the tip of her finger. She dragged it close, then worked free the drawstring. At last, she chanced a look down.

Her stomach threatened to rebel again.

Inside the bag was a severed human hand, old enough to be cold and clotted, but not so old that it was in full rot yet. It was emblazoned with the Outsider's mark, and was bruised in places, knuckles scraped. It was also dotted with dried paint, spatters of bright colors sunk into the cuticles of the nails.

"What-"

"Delilah Copperspoon is dead," Billie said. "I would've brought her head, but the hand was a bit easier to carry all the way from Brigmore."

Callista simply stared, struggling to square the hand in the bag with all she'd been struggling for the last few weeks. She'd thought she was getting close, but-

"You hadn't even planned on going to Brigmore, had you," Billie snorted. "Two more days and you _and_ the High Overseer would have been dead."

"Why?" Callista asked.

"Because she had a-"

"No, _why help me_?" She dragged her gaze from the hand to Billie.

Billie hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "You let me live, and I had a mistake to fix. She destroyed my life."

Callista let go of the bag, its soft walls falling over the contents, hiding them from view. "… And the Empress?"

Billie quirked a brow.

"Is Dunwall gold going into your pockets now?"

The assassin's lips curled.

Callista nodded to herself, and wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. "I see."

Billie was still a moment longer, then reached back to the counter behind her. She pulled out a canvas crudely slashed from its stretching frame, its edges jagged and torn. "Two more days," Billie said, passing it to Callista, "and you would've put a bullet in his brain, or worse."

Callista's fingers curled around the canvas, then spasmed. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, shins striking the tile. The splitting pain in her head began again. She swore, struggling to stay upright, and flung the canvas aside. It struck a wall and unrolled.

A riot of colors washed over her, and she stared, transfixed, at the perversion of her image on the canvas. All the dull browns of her hair and eyes and skin were gone, replaced by otherworldly colors, the kind she'd seen in the portraits at Timsh's. Her high-set ears and long nose were exaggerated, making her rodent-like features all the more prominent.

But for all the sickening energy rolling off the canvas, plucking at her thoughts, the pose was static. Empty.

She could feel the artist's contempt and disinterest.

"Powerful, isn't it," Billie murmured. She hadn't moved from the counter. That, at least, was good. She'd had several moments to strike, and hadn't. Callista clung to that desperately, the only touchstone she had.

"You'll want to burn it. It'll feel like something snapping off inside of you, but it's not dangerous. As far as I can tell."

"What is it?"

"She uses portraits to get inside people's heads. Used, anyway. The room was lined with them. I was there. Daud was there. You. The Empress."

"Is that why you intervened, then?"

"Yes. By the time I got there, she was dangerously close to being finished with the Empress's portrait. She told me what she was going to use it for - to get inside the Empress's body, replace her mind with her own, and take power."

"She told you this?"

Billie nodded. "She told me that, and all the details. How she'd observed how the girl sat, how she'd used another puppet to test her theory that the body would remember how to sign the name, even with the mind replaced. Used that barrister, Timsh."

Callista's eyes widened. The painting at Timsh's. The strange change in his mood. The way he'd seemed suddenly eager to sign his name on the documents granting her Geoff's apartment.

How he'd claimed to have no memory of the event.

And how last night, her handwriting had seemed strange. It hadn't been her own - it had been the writing she'd used on chalkboards, her tutor's handwriting. Not the script she used for the Abbey.

It had been what her body remembered best.

"Delilah was a proud, haughty woman. Angry at the world for what she felt she'd been denied. Did you know, she'd known Jessamine as a girl? But since Delilah was just a servant girl..." She shrugged. "I came crawling back to her, under the auspices of being lost, powerless."

"An easy bluff."

She snorted. "Easier than scaling the walls of her house, yes. And because our witch so desperately wanted to be in control - because she often _was_ - she laughed at me and let me in, and still wasn't expecting it when I shoved a knife through her heart. She liked ripping women out of the lives they had grown into, preying on their feelings of arrogance, alienation, pride, and replacing their pasts with a life of servitude under one all-powerful ruler, but always with the promise of more power dangling in front of them."

Callista shifted uneasily. Billie watched with glittering eyes.

"So, she's dead."

"She's dead, and a threat you weren't even aware of is gone. You're not good enough to play this game, Curnow. I suggest you get out now. That's your uncle in the heretic's square, isn't it?"

Callista's shoulders hunched forward and her expression hardened. She yanked open a nearby drawer with enough force that the contents crashed and rattled, then drew out a matchbook. "I was pursuing it."

"Not fast enough."

"I _was_ aware of her. I was speaking with Sokolov-"

"Not fast enough," Billie repeated.

Callista bit down a snarl and struck a match, the sharp, fleeting scent of phosphorous being quickly overtaken by the reek of burning oil paint and canvas as she tossed it down to the portrait. Something drew tight inside of her, and she closed her eyes, breath hissing out between her clenched teeth, as it twisted, contorted, came close to snapping. She steeled herself.

The painting's hold on her released in a gentle falling-away, the tightness in her breast fading to nothing.

She opened her eyes and stamped out the flames, which were threatening to creep along to the wall, but the apartment was better built than her old tenement, and not so flammable. With the flames extinguished by her boot, she turned back to Billie. The assassin's chest rose and fell just slightly out of rhythm, and her face looked a little grayer than it had before.

"I'm not going to run," she said. "I've made my decision."

"This city will eat you."

Callista managed a thin, bitter smile. "I have you, now."

Billie's laugh was loud and rough. "You don't have shit, Curnow. I work for the Empress. She trusts you more than the Regent, but what happens after he's gone?"

"Is he on your list? That's why she asked me for your name, after all."

Callista watched her closely, watched the slight downward flick of her gaze, the tightening of her hand on the counter's edge.

"He's not," Callista said.

"Something you said must have stuck with her," Billie admitted. "She wants to be more subtle. Do you have information that can destroy him?"

"Some. Not enough. We were hoping to use his hiring Delilah."

"Then let me give you what I have. Neither I nor my employer have the standing to confront him, obviously. I'd be killed. She'd be patted on the head then locked in her room without supper." Slowly, Billie pushed herself away from the counter. "So if you're in this, you'll have to make the next strike."

"Gladly," she said, taking a step closer to the woman.

"Have one of your contacts get ahold of the ledger. Delilah was seen by many people during that official portraiture session - the Empress was smart and made sure of it. Anything seen by many has a chance of being on the official ledger. Check it. The Regent knew Delilah when she was Jessamine's good friend, and when she worked for Sokolov - so it's easily argued that he knows about her heretical tendencies. If there are records of him hiring her-"

"Then he exposed the Empress, his charge, to a known witch. That's treason," Callista finished. "But he wouldn't have been that foolish."

"Maybe not, but I also know he paid Daud - and _that_ was direct. And you have her hand. That mark's proof."

"Daud's payment isn't in the ledgers," she said, considering how much to reveal. "... But we may have a way of proving it, regardless."

"The two together should be damning enough, I think, to get him at least temporarily removed from office. From what I've seen, Waverly Boyle is quite ready to step in. The Empress will not contest it. But the Regent's tendrils reach deep."

"They're based on money - money provided by Lydia Boyle. Will she side with her sister, do you think?"

Billie shrugged. "Not my job to figure that out."

Callista nodded, slowly.

"If we cut off the head and freeze his assets... it could work," she said.

_And if we expose the Regent and Campbell, my uncle's crime takes on new meaning_. He would have been protecting Dunwall. He could be pardoned. It seemed nearly impossible, but surely something could be done. Her heart rose in her throat, and her hands began to tremble. She clasped them behind her back.

"If it works, it's much better than a bullet," Billie said. "Though it won't take care of the plague."

"No, but-"

Weeks ago, she and Martin had discussed the possibility of the Pendleton ships bringing the plague. The ledgers would show how the Regent had funded those expeditions. Of course, some uncertainty would enter the picture given their part in kidnapping the Empress, but if the plague had begun well before Jessamine's assassination... _The Regent, not the Empress, funds their trips, they bring back the plague..._ It could be used to turn public opinion.

Nothing to be done about the dead, of course, but more ammunition against the seat of power.

"It will be done. Assure the Empress that we will be her hand."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Martin was alone and dozing when she entered his office and crossed the space to his desk in five quick strides, the door shut tight behind her. He was tipped back in his chair slightly, one boot propped on his desk, hands folded over his belly. Callista dropped the bag containing the witch's hand on the desk.

He didn't flinch.

He was vulnerable, laid out before her like a feast day delicacy, and all it would have taken to kill him was to pick up the letter opener on his desk and step forward, drive it right where she had attempted to the night before-

But the impulse wasn't there.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Billie had done her a great service. She had to make the most of it.

"Martin."

His eyes remained closed, but he quirked an eyebrow.

_Ah_. He'd been awake the whole time. It certainly explained why his door had been unlocked. Was he testing her? Seeing if he could still trust his safety to her?

"The witch is dead," she said. "And Billie is no longer a threat. Neither am I."

His chair legs thudded against the carpeted floor, and he opened his eyes, brow furrowing. "You've been busy."

"Hardly," she said, gesturing to the bag. "I had a visitor. She's still crippled, but she's been retained by the Empress. For now we're moving on parallel tracks. She solved the mystery of Delilah Copperspoon before I could, and she's taken care of the problem."

Martin regarded her coolly for a moment, then reached for the bag and tugged it open. His nose wrinkled, and he grasped the bag from the outside as he wiggled its contents into view. The Outsider's mark seemed starker still now, with the skin fully grey and strangely drawn.

"Her plot was to paint the Empress, then use that portrait to control her. She would have been able to imitate the girl's signature perfectly. She had done this before; she was likely in control of Arnold Timsh when his demeanor shifted and he granted me my uncle's apartment."

She tried not to think of Geoff, still hounded in the square below. She had returned to Holger by car; it had saved her the sight of him.

"She was also in control of me when I attempted to stab you," she added, voice softening. She kept her gaze fixed on the hand.

Martin said nothing.

"The Empress has decided," she said, approaching and lowering her voice further still, "not to have the Regent killed. She would like _us_ to take a more subtle approach. I believe that with this proof that the painter he hired was a witch-"

"We still can't prove he knew."

"Yesterday, when I spoke with Sokolov at the Academy, he said that Burrows knew her from a young age, and would never have hired her _unless_ he wanted to utilize her heretical abilities."

"Difficult to prove, Callista." He looked up at her, expression softening. "I know that this is a difficult time for you. But while our assassin has provided us with relief from another threat, I don't see how-"

"We use Campbell's journal. We show prior history of the Regent hiring various thugs - heretics - to clear the way for him." She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the table. "It's time, Martin. We have enough."

"He'll discredit us when we speak up," Martin said. "What do we do, get his propaganda officer to make this announcement? No, we need to catch him in the act."

"Then we catch him," Callista said.

Martin canted his head.

She swallowed, hands beginning to tremble. She pressed them harder against the wood as her thoughts began to race. "We need access to his ledgers, first off. Even the official ones will be enough - our contacts there must be able to get access. Then we have the journal. Burrows has spent the last months desperate to find out what you know. We call him here, and present ourselves as allies. You say you just discovered the journal."

"He'll deny it," Martin said, shaking his head.

"How can he? And he's desperate for allies, with the Empress pulling away. Did you see him on the platform today? And how was he after I left? For that matter," she paused, frowning, "where have they all gone?"

"To the Tower. I demured. And he was... attentive, I would say," Martin said, glancing away. "But even if he confesses to us..."

"Your old office," Callista said, slamming one of her hands down against the wood in emphasis and a sudden surge of triumph. "The hole, that I listened through that first night. If we set up an audiograph recorder in the room, it will work. We take _that_ to the propaganda officer. It's perfect - from that hole, your voice will be muffled, since your back will be to it. His will be clear."

"And what if he doesn't trust us enough to do all the talking?"

"Then you offer him something to make him trust you," she said. "He doesn't trust either of us. My uncle is the one in the square. Tell him- tell him whatever you think he needs to hear about me, to make him believe this isn't a ploy on your part. Discredit me, if you have to. Tell him that I'm an idealistic fool, and that my desperate pleas have made you question your involvement with me, and made you- I don't know. Perhaps it caused you to find, or to finally decode, the journal. And to seek a better ally than a grasping governess."

"And if he asks about how we located the Empress?"

"Good, solid detective work," she said. "Suspicions. No proof, just us making a stab in the dark. Martin, this will _work_."

He pursed his lips, then nodded, slowly. "It might. If it doesn't, though-"

"If it doesn't, I'm dead or imprisoned, and you have a new bedfellow. I'm willing to take the risk. Are you?"

Martin sat forward. "Send for Windham, then get set up in that side room. I'll have him here by morning."

* * *

Callista spent the entire night pacing. Her heart wouldn't still, and she found herself again and again lingering by windows, looking out on the floodlit square where her uncle hung alternately limp and raging in the stocks. Windham had been gone since just before nightfall, but he'd confessed, hesitantly, that her uncle had sustained several secondary wounds from items hurled by the crowd. There was, he'd assured her, the benefit that the curfew would stop the abuse, and that the floodlights would keep what rats were present at Holger away from him. It would be a reprieve.

But that didn't stop the abuse from the Overseers. She saw what she thought was one Overseer pissing on her uncle's bowed back. She turned away from the window, and resumed her pacing.

By morning, Windham still hadn't returned. Word came that Burrows would arrive shortly before noon. The crowds formed again, though smaller than the day before, and Callista busied herself in the side room, going into the office once or twice to test the recording power of the audiograph machine. Meanwhile, upstairs in Martin's usual office, Martin broke out a window, claimed an accident, and made a show of repairing down to his prior office. Nothing seemed amiss.

Just before noon, the railcar from the Tower rolled up. Martin met Burrows in the main square. Callista watched from a window, then retreated back to the side room.

It was clearer now; much of the discarded furniture had been removed or donated to her apartment. She didn't have to crouch or contort herself. But the room was still small and dark, and the only light came from below the door and from the hole.

The minutes dragged by. She began to worry that Burrows had objected to the change in location, that his paranoia had gripped him too tightly for their plan to work. But then she heard the door open, and Martin's voice.

"-terribly sorry about the office, but I do think you'll appreciate the poetic appropriateness in just a minute."

"Hmph," Burrows replied. "You had better get that assistant of yours under control. The rains are coming and I hear they'll be horrible this year. With that hole she put in your window, you're looking at far too much property damage."

Callista paused, simultaneously amused and pricked by Martin's explanation of the broken window, then reached forward, initiating the audiograph's recording. Its click was muffled by the red sash she usually wore, now wrapped around the machine. She removed it as the machine quieted.

In the office, the door closed again.

"So what's so important? You rarely invite me by twice in a week, let alone two days."

"We received an anonymous delivery yesterday night that I think will interest you."

Burrows huffed again. "Well, go on."

"It was the hand of a woman, marked with the Outsider's sigil."

Burrows didn't respond at first, and she could barely make out the rustle of his clothing as he shifted his weight. "... Congratulations are in order, then? Two marked individuals - my understanding is that those are quite rare?"

"Very rare, yes. High Overseers pass their entire terms of office never encountering one, let alone killing them. I think this is a very auspicious sign. The hand was accompanied by a note, however; _that_ is what looks to be of interest to you."

"A note?"

"Yes. The anonymous vigilante claimed that the hand belonged to a painter named Delilah Copperspoon. We had Sokolov by to confirm that the pigments we found beneath her nails were consistent with an artist. He was able to confirm that, and mentioned that he'd known a Delilah Copperspoon once. The strangest thing, however, was that my assistant informed me that the Empress recently met with her to have her portrait painted."

Again, Burrows was silent.

"These heretics are insidious, Lord Regent. The Royal Physician also mentioned you would have known Copperspoon as well, as she was a playmate of young Jessamine."

"I did. She was a baker's girl back in Euhorn's day. Then she was Sokolov's apprentice, yes. I vaguely remember that."

"It would be entirely understandable," Martin continued, "for you to have hired her on in an attempt to ease the Empress's transition back to a stable life. Her mother's friend, after all, should be a source of comfort."

"You are very perceptive, High Overseer," Burrows said, voice chilled. "Thank your vigilante for me; I had no idea she would have been a threat. Arnold Timsh suggested her when the Empress expressed a distaste for the Royal Physician. I remembered her name, and Arnold assured me she was safe."

"Of course. Really, the whole issue with the painter is of secondary importance, though."

"Is it, now?"

"Yes." Martin cleared his throat. "As you... may have noticed, my assistant is currently quite unstable. Her speech yesterday was admirable, and she hasn't done anything foolish aside from throwing that paperweight through my window, but the incident has made me pause for thought. I remember your cautions when you first met her."

"Mm."

"She has, of course, been quite helpful. She was the one, for instance, to suggest I make a closer search of Campbell's private room. Where I found this."

She heard the soft thud of the journal being dropped onto the desk.

"... And what is _that_?" Burrows asked.

"A journal, kept in code. It details many things - many useful things - but the greatest point of interest for _me_ is the recordkeeping of how much he owed _you_ for the hiring of one Daud. When we captured his associate, the assassin known as Billie Lurk, she mentioned that you had hired Daud to kill the late Empress, but I assumed it was a misleading falsehood. After all, the plot seemed sloppy. What would have happened, for instance, if Attano had returned a few days later? You would have had no scapegoat. But then this journal confirmed all of it. It also confirmed that-"

"_Stop_," Burrows hissed. "I know what's in there. Campbell was a fool."

"Do you deny any of it?"

"What's your purpose? And this Billie Lurk- I don't recall any announcements about her?"

Martin's chair creaked; Callista imagined him leaning back. Her breath and heart were knotted in her throat.

"We decided it was a private Abbey matter. We hardly needed panic in the streets," Martin provided, smoothly. "At any rate, I have since read this notebook cover to cover. Campbell was a foolish, greedy man. I am not. I am also not an idealist. This city clearly needs firm governance, not the whims of a child. It's imperative that you remain as Regent, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Burrows growled.

"I would support you," Martin said. "Except that your plotting has revealed that you are a fool. Attano-"

"Attano was a happy accident," Burrows snapped. "_Originally_, the plan was to set up Jessamine's death as a plot by her poor, pathetic supporters, all the impoverished fools who beg for handouts and glut our streets. Her popularity would have been her downfall, as was _right_. It was a pity she had to die - she was a decent ruler, as things go - but she was not firm enough, and she indulged the people too much. I had hoped bringing the plague would open her eyes and show her that the city was better off without the ever-increasing masses of the unclean, but instead it softened her still further."

"The plague?"

"Is out of hand, true, but it is only because of how foolish the unthinking herds are. We have told them to remain in their homes; they don't listen. We have set up checkpoints to control their movements, so that only specific neighborhoods die out; they sneak through the sewers like rats! They carry it with them wherever they go, and the rats come with them."

Callista covered her mouth, eyes wide. She thought back to her apartment. Had its infection been intentional, or spillover?

"Sokolov's latest projections show that we'll lose nearly half the populace before the plague begins to burn out, and that we'll lose more skilled workers before that. Unfortunate, yes, but we will at least start clean, once the bodies are burned."

They didn't need the connection to Delilah. They didn't need proof that he'd murdered Jessamine, though now they had it well in hand.

This was worse.

This would destroy him.

"I have done what was necessary. Do you understand, High Overseer?"

"I do," Martin said, hiding any horror he must have been feeling. "And I must agree, where you began from was elegant. But you made a crucial error, one that I learned to avoid the hard way."

"And that is?"

"You assumed you would succeed. _Never_ assume success. It only leads you to forget to make contingency plans. You were lucky that Curnow killed Campbell - it gave you a stronger explanation for Attano's actions. A plot born on the waves. Without Curnow's actions, however, you would have been vulnerable."

"Without Curnow's actions, I would have had no new elements, _High Overseer_," Burrows snarled.

Distantly, Callista heard a knock. She frowned. Windham, back with the ledgers? No, no- she began to rise. She should have given word to stop him-

The door opened.

"Lydia?" Burrows said, clearly confused.

"High Overseer," she said, "a little birdie told me you were looking for the ledgers. I took the liberty of bringing both sets of our books over. Hopefully this will convince you of the wisdom of considering my funding?"

Callista pressed herself to the wall, peering desperately through the crack. She half expected to see Lydia Boyle with gun in hand, aimed at Martin's head, here to rescue her lover's status.

But instead, she held two heavy books. Burrows had gone white. Martin held out his hand and received them.

"My sister and I agreed," Lydia continued, "that it was best that you be apprised of everything. And oh, Hiram- the painter you hired, the one who promised to help us control the girl- she hasn't turned up today. What's her name- Copperspoon?"

Burrows stayed very still. Martin was flipping through the ledgers. Callista pulled back, hurriedly, afraid of blocking the flow of sound.

"Ah, there's the payment to Daud. That's a hefty sum, to be sure. And there's the payments to the Lords Pendleton for keeping the Empress at the Cat. And there's the payment to Copperspoon. How many meetings is this for?"

"She didn't charge for the introductory meeting."

"Be silent, Lydia," Burrows said.

"What? I was listening outside the door, Hiram."

She could imagine Martin's pleased smile. Her own matched it. She was grinning. The audiograph player clicked faintly, having recorded its full length, but she didn't care.

"I know he's in with us now."

It was enough.

Callista pulled the audiograph card from the machine and retied her sash about her waist, then tucked the card inside of it, protectively. She rose, knees creaking, and carefully opened the door to the hall. Nobody was about. She moved quickly through the halls, pausing only once at a window to look out on Geoff.

_Soon. Just give it a few minutes_.

Martin would keep them busy for a while longer, she was sure. Their plan at this point was murky, but given how direct Burrows and Boyle had been, she assumed he knew as well as she did that they could strike now, easily, while the Abbey could take them into custody. She descended the stairs to the railcar line, and clambered in.

Fifteen minutes later, Burrows' confession was blaring from every loudspeaker in the city.

By the time she returned to Holger, he was already in chains.

* * *

"Geoff Curnow is not, as been believed up until now, an enemy of the state, nor the Abbey." Martin's voice boomed across the space. "He reacted in the manner of a good citizen; we now have _proof_ that Hiram Burrows and Thaddeus Campbell conspired to kill the late Empress, and to have her child stolen. We believe that the original intent, prior to our intervention, was for the former Regent to produce the Empress when it best suited him; the late brothers Pendleton were certainly holding her, but he knew at all times where she was. And are those the actions of a man you would call Regent?

"Thaddeus Campbell knew of all of this, but there can be no argument that he concealed it for the sake of Dunwall or the sake of our unending battle against the forces of the Outsider. No, instead he allowed heresy - the Regent's conspiring with individuals whom we _know_ to have born the Outsider's mark.

"Therefore, let it be known that it is the position of the High Overseer that while Geoff Curnow did commit murder, he did it in the service of the Abbey and the city. He will therefore be removed from the square and allowed to rest in one of the holding cells, where he will remain _unmolested_ until I hear from the High Oracle. With her approval, he will be rehabilitated as a guest of the Abbey. Any objections to this plan will be seen as an act of treason, siding with the corrupt government that has now been rightfully displaced.

"Is that clear, Brothers?"

"Aye," came the chorus of replies. Some were enthusiastic. Most sounded confused. A few were grudging.

But it was done. Callista felt a weight lift off of her, the mass of the sea threatening to drown her pulling away with the tide. She took a deep breath.

He would never speak again, but he would live.

"I leave Brother Windham and Brother Hume in charge of moving Geoff Curnow. Render all assistance to keep back the crowds outside. Understood?"

"Aye!"

Martin surveyed the room slowly, then nodded, and stepped down from the lectern. Hume and Windham pushed out of the crowd, taking up spots on the raised platform, quickly setting to work dividing the assembled men.

Callista met Martin just by the doorway to the eastern stairwell. She struggled to keep down her smile, and gave up when he grinned at her.

"A fine day's work, Miss Curnow," he murmured, winking as he pushed open the door.

She followed him upstairs in a giddy haze. A part of her longed to rush down and observe her uncle being unshackled. She dreamed of gathering him up into her arms, apologizing, and him thanking her with tears of relief. He hadn't thought she was strong enough to fight the corruption of Dunwall, but she _had_ - for him, and for herself. The world was salvageable. She had proven it.

But she knew she would fall to pieces if she went to him now, and it would make his pardoning more suspect, more divisive. As it was, it would still take weeks of debating before he was released, and months more before the city accepted him and it was safe for him to go about at night. Then there was the physical and emotional rehabilitation he would face, learning to communicate without speech, adjusting to life not on the run, ceasing to dream of the day and night he'd spent out in the stocks.

Martin turned off down the hall towards his office, and she followed reflexively.

He closed the door behind them, and went to pour them both glasses of whiskey. He handed one of the fine glasses to her, and raised his own in her direction. "To success and triumph, all at your hands, my dear Miss Curnow."

A breathy, shaky laugh escaped her and she raised her glass in turn. "I- could hardly have done it without you."

"Do you forgive me, then?" His smile faded. "For allowing this to happen?" His hand drifted to his sternum, then to the soft spot just below it where she'd nearly run him through.

She flushed, turning away from him. "... I do. It's possible that I wasn't in my right mind then. The witch-"

"It doesn't matter," he said, and downed half his glass. She jerked around as she heard the clink of glass on his desk. He'd set his glass down, and now regarded her with something that looked a lot like-

Pride.

She drank from her own glass. The whiskey had a sweet note, and its burn was measured and pleasant. She closed her eyes and let the liquid roll around her tongue. Yes, this was success. This was _her_ success.

Even now, Geoff was being escorted inside. Perhaps he was afraid - it was possible his escorts refused to tell him what was going on. The thought soured slightly inside of her, and she swallowed her whiskey down, opening her eyes.

Martin was still watching her, though his expression had softened somewhat.

"Thank you," he said.

"For?"

"Everything. Without you, I wouldn't have deciphered Campbell's code - at least not so quickly. We wouldn't have retrieved the Empress and ingratiated ourselves with her. I would have died twice over. I may never have become High Overseer, even. It seems, Miss Curnow, that I can find the whole of my success in you."

He approached, slowly. There was a brief moment of fear, when she realized that Martin, in a different world, might have resented her for that dependency, and that he might see her now as more of a threat than a boon - but his expression darkened with arousal as he approached, not violence.

"Never leave me, Miss Curnow," he murmured, stopping just inches away. His breath ghosted over her lips and the tip of her nose. "I'm not eager to see what I would become without you."

"I have no intentions of going anywhere," she replied. Her lips fitted against his easily, and he groaned as she pressed herself against him. His hands fell to her hips.

He pulled back a fraction of an inch. "Get on your knees, Miss Curnow," he breathed.

A small laugh escaped her. "Not this time, High Overseer," she whispered, and kissed him soundly once more.

Martin laughed too as she slipped her tongue between his lips, and ran her hands between their bodies so that she could unbuckle his harness. His hands danced in turn over the nip of her waist, then fell to the fasteners on her breeches, which he made quick work of, fingers deft and focused. His mouth left hers, branding a path down the side of her throat until he couldn't maneuver past the stiff fabric of her collar. He nipped at the jump of her pulse just above the starched edge, and she let her head fall back, eyes closing, breath hissing out between her teeth.

Her fingers loosened the buckle on his harness, and she shoved the stiff leather out of the way, reaching next for the clasps along his jacket.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked as he shoved down the fabric of her breeches, then reached up to undo the first few clasps of her jacket. "Not taking orders, changing the whole fabric of society-"

"There will be time for corrections in the future," she responded around a gasp as he bared her collarbones and began nibbling at the hollow between them. "I'm sure of it."

"Is that a promise?" he asked, and though his tone kept its usual levity, there was just the slightest hint of uncertainty, of fear.

"I promise," she said, as firmly as she could. Her fingers worked the last of the clasps open and she pushed his jacket open to reveal his undershirt, and the line of his throat and shoulder. He lifted his head with a quirked brow.

She glanced around the room. The shutters were open. The door was closed but unlocked.

She found she didn't care.

"Your trousers are going to get in the way," he said, eyes narrowing with interest. "And I might muss your uniform, you know."

"I don't care," she said, and took his hand, tugging him towards his desk. He barked a laugh, coming along easily, then bearing her back against the wood. Her rear bit into the edge of it, and she reached behind her, shoving pages out of the way as Martin hooked his arms around her thighs and pushed her onto her back.

With her legs held up, he could push aside her knickers easily. His gloved hand dipped between her thighs and she squirmed, her legs held together by his other arm and the tight embrace of her shoved-down breeches. She gasped as the stitching on his gloves tickled at her clit, hands curling around the edge of the desk.

"What I wouldn't give to have you naked right now," Martin groaned, spreading her cunt open with two fingers. He couldn't reach her to kiss her, so he kissed at the leather of her boots.

"Another time," she whispered.

He grinned at that, and his hand left her to instead work the clasps of his breeches open.

He was buried inside of her in another second, hard and thick and as deep as her body would let him go, and her head fell back against the desk. She felt the edge of a book beneath her, and squirmed, moving her head to the side.

She read the spine reflectively. _Tynan_. Her belly twisted with excitement and she remembered in perfect detail how that book had felt wedged between their teeth.

"Good memories, mm?" Martin murmured, leaning down as near as he could, pushing her thighs further towards her chest. The burn was intense, but her focus was wholly again on where they were joined, how he pushed into her as if he wanted to fall inside of her and never return again.

His free hand danced over her clit and lower belly, then left her entirely, planting on the desk by her head. His gloves gleamed with her dampness.

He began to move, straightening up and lessening the tension on her legs. He held them slightly to the side, so that she could see his face, the way he never looked away from her.

Her toes curled in her boots as he moved, as his brow furrowed and his body flexed. He began slowly, breathing hard, savoring every second and focusing on prolonging it. Each stroke was agonizing in its excellence, and Callista let go of the desk by her hips in favor of arching her back, straining against her corset as she reached over her head. Martin grinned and moved a little faster.

The desk beneath them began to rock and creak; she hardly noticed.

She could barely move the way he held her, could do nothing but squirm and try desperately to rut against him whenever his hips connected with the flesh of her ass, but it was more than enough. He pumped in and out of her with barely-restrained ferocity, then dropped back to gentle, slow, enticing strokes, until she couldn't stop the whines that had built in her throat from echoing in the room. Her voice filled the space around them, while he remained nearly silent, gasping, grunting, and- once or twice- whispering jumbles of words to her, about her hips, about her cunt, about _her_.

Callista closed her eyes, squirming, tilting her hips this way and that to maximize the sensation. When she cried out, it wasn't a sharp explosion; it was the culmination of every moment up until then, every sensation, every gasping breath. It rolled together with all the rest, and it rolled together with Martin's orgasm, his hips pressing desperately against hers, his chest bowing her legs close to her belly once more as he sagged forward.

His shoulders trembled. Her belly twitched.

Their breathing was ragged and her back began to ache from where the wood had pressed her corset in too deeply, from where her head had rubbed against the desk with each thrust. Then Martin laughed, breathily.

"Somebody no doubt heard you, Miss Curnow," he murmured, stretching to kiss at her shoulder. He eased his grip on her legs and slid out of her. She felt chill and empty as his hips left hers and air replaced his heat. Slowly, she moved to sit up, her legs protesting from how they'd been held.

"And what could they do to us?" she asked, grinning through her fuzzy lethargy.

"Not much," he agreed, grinning, as he began fixing his uniform. He grabbed for a cloth and offered it to her.

She was wiping herself down when she heard the gunshot.

It sounded distant, like the sirens had in Sokolov's office. She grew very still. Practice, out in the yard, she thought, or a weapons test run by the quartermaster. There were gunshots daily. And yet...

She stood up, pulling up her breeches mechanically and righting her uniform as she walked to the window. Martin was already there, looking out without a word.

Her belly twisted with fear.

"He should be inside," Martin said as Callista reached him. She curled her fingers around the sill and leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the glass. She could just barely see the square from where she stood. She could see a crowd that was dispersing quickly - too quickly. She saw hounds streaking into the crowd. She saw two Overseers rushing towards the stocks.

"No," she whispered.

"He should be _inside_," Martin repeated.

A figure that could only be Geoff Curnow hung limp in the stocks.

"Windham-"

"Windham had his orders. He wouldn't have done this," Martin said.

Callista swallowed, feeling ash collect in her belly.

"I'll fix this," Martin said, pushing away from the window. "I'll fix this. If somebody in the crowd- their aim was probably shit. I'll call for Sokolov. I'll-"

"They're not attending to him," Callista said, softly.

Martin turned back towards her. "What do you mean?"

"They're focusing on the crowd. He's not moving."

_He's dead_.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Windham was on guard outside of the morgue. A dead man required fewer guards than a live man, and wherever Jasper was, he wasn't here. Callista was alone, and for all her grief and anger, she felt quiet. Sad. Numb.

He was thinner than she remembered. His weeks on the run had been short, but not easy. They'd stripped his corpse to the waist, and she counted his ribs, hands hovering just above his cool skin.

The bullet had punched open the base of his throat. On his front, it was a neat-edged, largish hole, no longer bleeding. If she rolled him over, she knew she'd seen a gaping wound and the jagged edges of his spine.

Somebody in the crowd had fired a single shot. Nobody had seen him. It hadn't been an Overseer, or an agent of the Regent. It had been some violent man, or some scared man, or some confused man.

She didn't touch the body. It seemed wrong, to pollute him with her presence. She twisted her hands together, and bit down on every errant noise that sought to escape from her lungs. Windham would understand, true, but she didn't deserve those exercises of grief.

She had done this.

Quietly, she added him to her mental ledger of murders. _This_ was where all her machinations brought her. Safety was a laughable concept - not just hers, but that of everybody around her. Power and stability demanded she respond quickly, forcefully, that she eliminate all softness in herself-

But as she thought back over the last several days, she knew there was nothing she could have done to prevent this, except to have never come to Martin at all.

"All I wanted," she whispered, touching the table just by his shoulder, "was to make sure I would be okay. You told me to come here, so I did. But when you told me to leave, I wouldn't listen."

The corpse said nothing.

Outside, the intercoms blared with the truth of the Regent. Waverly Boyle had made an announcement as the crowd was cleared from the square; she would be acting Regent until Parliament could convene in two days time. Callista knew already that it would stick. Emily would settle into a life run not by a paranoid, brilliant man, but by a paranoid, brilliant woman. The world moved on. But inside the morgue, everything was still and cold. Callista settled both hands on the table, and bowed her head.

Her thoughts screeched like unoiled hinges, like grinding gears, in the scorched, nearly-barren interior of herself. She reached for the place where there was nothing left of her, needing the encircling emptiness to numb her pain once more.

Geoff's chest rose by degrees.

She held her breath, not daring to look directly at him. His chest rose to its apex, then fell again, breath gurgling through the hole in his throat. She clutched desperately at the edge of the table, and in the edges of her vision, Geoff pushed himself upright, turned in place, and swung his legs over the side of the table.

His hand was cold on her shoulder.

"If only you had run away with me," Geoff said, despite his lack of tongue. The words were round-edged, indistinct, but it was his voice.

Tears spattered the table, droplets sliding along her fingers.

"Do you remember, when you were a little girl, and Viola's daughter drowned in the ocean by our coast home?"

She nodded, seeing Delphinia's head disappear beneath the surf, and then the following stillness, as if nothing had happened at all.

"You were a child, so it would have been unfair to blame you for it." Geoff's breath rattled in his throat. "But if you hadn't been so distracted, she would never have gone into the ocean alone. If you hadn't been distracted, you might have remembered that sometimes a riptide sprung up between those two rocks. You were a child, but you were old enough to show some consideration for the safety of others."

Callista's choked sob sounded too loud in the confines of the morgue. She sank down to her knees. Geoff's hand never left her shoulder. She hunched forward, her head tucked against the side of the table.

He was right, of course.

"Your brother's illness was inevitable," Geoff continued, "but you hastened _his_ death, too. He was weak, but you brought him dirty things from the yard. You talked too much to him when he was tired, and when he was vigorous, you didn't have time for him. There was no knife in your hand, but you are not entirely blameless, either."

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"If I had let you go out to sea with the whalers - if they would have taken you at all - it would have sunk in the next great storm."

"_Why_? I don't understand."

Geoff didn't respond for a long moment. Then he laughed, a gurgling, rasping sound. "Because you've always been dangerous, Callista. Everything you touch, you destroy."

"That's not true," she whispered.

"Oh?"

She struggled against the weight of his accusations, accusations that should never have come from his mouth. He'd always thought her gentle, vulnerable, in need of protection.

"My students," she said at last. "None have died. Some have grown prosperous. You're _wrong_- I don't destroy everything."

"Then what does?"

"The world," she said. "Other people, other places. Nothing is blameless. How _dare_ you, when you foolishly sent me letters, knowing there was no easy way for me to respond, knowing that all they did was make you vulnerable. You selfish, lonely, _stupid_ man!"

Her cry echoed in the room, and she blinked through a sudden rush of tears. When she could see again, Geoff's body, cold and unmoving, stiff from death, lay bundled in her arms.

He'd never spoken at all. He had no tongue to do it with.

She staggered up, pressing his body back onto the table. She draped herself over it in one last hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I love you. I miss you."

Her body tensed, then released.

She stepped back from the table, wrapping her arms around herself.

He would likely be dumped into Rudshore, unless Martin could effect a mix-up that took him to one of the few functioning crematoria left in the city. She would never get his ashes, in any case.

"I'm sorry," she said again, to the empty world.

* * *

Anise was waiting for her in Campbell's old secret room.

"Get out," Callista said.

"We must speak, Miss Curnow."

"I would be alone." Her voice was flat. Even. Dead. The ashes inside of her clogged her throat but left her tongue free to work.

"I will be brief." Anise rose from Callista's desk and approached her. "The High Oracle requests that you join our sect. You will remain as you are, in charge of administration. You will take over communications with High Overseer Martin, but your first allegiance will be to us. You will find that our cloisters are... peaceful."

Callista froze. The Oracular Order- wanted her?

The thought of being shut safely away from the world was attractive. Desperately, brightly attractive. To be away from Martin, and from all the bodies at her feet-

"I'm not interested," she forced herself to say.

"Your interest is irrelevant. There is a greater context. The High Overseer believes he and you are an island, at odds with the world, and that though he has clawed his way to the top, he is still separate. It is understandable, given his background. But it will no longer serve him. He must understand that.

"You will help us."

Callista clenched her jaw. She didn't want to deal with this. "Leave."

"You have a month to make your decision. If you do not join us-"

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not interested in your threats just now, Sister Anise." No, she _wasn't_ interested.

Anise smiled. "There is no threat, Miss Curnow."

And she left.

* * *

The ride to Brigmore was grey and chill. The whole city seemed grey and chill these days, in the week since Geoff's death. His body was long gone.

Her own was still.

Martin sat beside her as the riverboat moved steadily up the Wrenhaven, but he didn't touch her, barely looked at her. They hadn't spoken more than the Abbey had required of them in the days since, and Callista hadn't found it in herself to seek him out.

Martin had been absent for much of that time. There was much to be done, after all; Waverly Boyle had gone before Parliament and been accepted - with Treavor Pendleton as co-regent. There were rumors of a potential betrothal. Lydia Boyle had denounced Hiram Burrows, but with the added assurance of her sister that her denunciation would not follow Callista's example. The Regent himself was in Abbey custody, and requests had been sent to the High Oracle to confirm the post-death pardoning of her uncle as well as the condemnation of Hiram Burrows

Brother Jasper had been arrested and was under investigation due to several ledger entries that confirmed that Burrows had paid them.

New elixir rationing was going into effect, a few handpicked students of Sokolov increasing production to keep up with demand.

They passed over the murky water of the estuaries, the depths filled with more and denser weeds the further inland they went. She peered into their shadows, half-expecting to see pale bloated faces of the dead rising to the surface. Blacky paced the deck before her, and she was focused on the spreading wake and the click of his claws when something brushed against her hand.

She turned her head to find an envelope propped against her glove.

Martin was studiously looking away from her.

She took the envelope in hand and turned it over. It was addressed to Martin, and the paper was familiar. It took her a moment to place it.

_The High Oracle_.

Her chest tightened for a moment, in fear of what might be inside. He'd already opened it. He already knew.

Perhaps the Oracle had told him that they thought they would take her. Perhaps the Oracle had told him that Callista had already made her decision.

But in the week since she'd spoken with Anise, all her desperate thoughts of flight had faded away. They'd been panicked, and nothing more. Her guilt had settled gently onto her shoulders once more, and though her heart felt raw and cold, she wasn't ready to give it up. She wasn't willing to be a pawn.

The riverboat drew up to its dock. Hume's men began filing off, ready to tear apart Copperspoon's nest. Martin went with them. Callista remained in her seat, and when she was alone, she drew out the folded paper inside.

_High Overseer,_

_By now I hope that I will have read your first report. One day, perhaps, there will be a faster means of communication. But for now, I must write to you before I know your attitude towards us._

_There lies a choice before you. Anise has been sent to observe it, and its fallout, and has brought this letter with her. She does not know its contents. Do not tell her._

_It is also in your best interest not to share this letter with Miss Curnow, at least not in the present. If you do, you consign her to death._

_Shortly, Geoff Curnow will return to Dunwall. How or why, I cannot see. What I can see is that Miss Curnow will agitate for his freedom. There are many ways that she might do this. Some will succeed._

_All that succeed will end with her death instead._

_It is my advice to you to take the following path: allow Geoff Curnow to die. It will not be hard. If you take no action, he will die. Miss Curnow will be bereft, and she will leave, but she will survive. And, in time, Burrows will fall on his own sword. It is the least disruptive, and it will serve the Abbey and the Oracular Order the best._

_If you intervene and attempt to discredit Burrows yourself, you will force me to step in myself. It may no longer be safe to be High Overseer Teague Martin. However, I will say that Miss Curnow will be healthy and, eventually, happy. She may even remain at your side._

_So what, I wonder, are your ultimate goals? Power? Safety? A woman's comfort? Are you loyal? Can I trust that you will do what must be done? Are you the High Overseer, or are you a frightened little boy, building up a castle of blocks? Tell me, Teague Martin._

_I await your choice with great interest._

And there was no more.

Her heart hammered in her chest. The High Oracle had known. _Martin_ had known. She tried to remember - how shocked had he acted in front of her, when she came back from the Royal Academy? Not very, but she'd written that off - she'd stayed hours with Sokolov to preserve appearances.

And the day she proposed her plan, Delilah Copperspoon's hand on the desk-

He'd known they could succeed. He'd also known that if supported her, Geoff would die.

Callista looked up. The men were off in the distance now, and there was distant shouting, but no gunshots. She drew herself up and went to the gangplank, then crossed to the dock, Blacky at her heels.

There, a flash of red- Martin, standing off in the flooded forest by the banks. She made for him, skirting willow branches, tromping through a few inches of fetid mud and water.

Martin didn't look up as she reached him.

Her hands trembled. In a way, he had killed Geoff. He had chosen Callista over a man he'd hardly known, over a man who she had blamed for his own death, over a potential ally. Geoff had been so many things, held so many possibilities.

And yet she couldn't be angry with him.

"You've read the letter?" Martin asked, breaking the silence.

"I have."

"So you know, then," he said, quietly. "That it was my fault. That I decided your fate for you."

Callista couldn't find words.

"Even after what you said to me the night you almost killed me. I could have told you how to save him. I chose not to. And I made no move to secure your happiness, until you suggested it."

Her chest burned. She took a deep breath.

"But you did," she said, then cleared her throat. "You did choose my happiness."

He smiled, grimly. "Have I? Perhaps the Oracle was lying. You don't seem happy."

"Thank you."

He turned, startled. "Thank-"

"It's the choice I would have made," she said, "if I had known about the letter. The city is safe. We're safe. My uncle... made his own decisions."

His throat bobbed. "I- see. However, I stand by my apology."

"As well you should," she said. Then she cleared her throat. "The High Oracle-"

"Can do whatever she wants to me," Martin said. "I can take it."

"The High Oracle has tried to recruit me," Callista said. "And left unspoken a threat if I don't decide to her liking."

He was silent, then shook his head. "It appears to be her style," he said, dryly.

"Was it Anise, then, who shot Geoff?" Callista asked, moving closer, the water sloshing around her boots. Blacky stood a few feet off, on a dry spot, unwilling to swim. "Did the Oracle ensure her predictions would come true? I'm not comfortable believing she actually saw all the possibilities. It seems more likely that she directs the flow of events."

"No," he said. "It wasn't Anise. ... Do you really want to know who it was?"

Callista considered a moment. "I do."

"I received a letter from the Empress today," he began, approaching slowly. His brows were up, concerned and wary. "We are to accompany her on a trip to Morley, in an attempt to secure allies for her legitimacy, and to get out of the worst of the plague while Sokolov and Waverly Boyle attempt new measures to control it."

"And?"

"The bullet that killed your uncle came from a military gun, likely a navy gun. An old one, at that. A few decades out of fashion." Martin reached up, rubbing at his jaw.

"I know of nobody in the navy who would have borne a grudge against my uncle," she said, slowly, frowning in thought.

"No, but we do know of one who owes a debt to your uncle. One who might think that a mercy killing was payment of that debt."

The dull grey of the world seemed to draw into sharp focus. She could see every blade of marsh grass, every ridge of bark on the surrounding trees. She could see the faint wrinkles in Martin's skin.

With that focus came rage, contained and hot.

"Havelock."

"We are going to Morley on his ship." He reached out, touching her shoulder. "Can you stand to be at sea with him?"

Clear as day, she could see herself shooting him, knocking him from the prow of his tall ship and into the unforgiving waves below. She began to shake.

"Why tell me?" she asked. "Why not lie?"

"Because you asked. Because you would've figured it out anyway, or he would have told you, and what if you had panicked? I can't leave you behind for this journey - I won't. And I am through making your choices for you. Of course," he continued, his hand sliding up to cup her jaw, "we can't do anything while on our trip to Morley, and that will strain you. And we might find, once we're there, that it is safer for us- not to return to Gristol at all, given the High Oracle's _frustrations_. But should that not be the case, learning about the man who killed your uncle might bring-"

"Opportunities."

"I was going to suggest closure. But yes. Opportunities as well." He smiled. "And in the meantime, we shall practice our control, hm?"

Callista nodded, slowly. Yes, this would work. She felt alive again. Alert. Focused. She looked Martin up and down. He was still her High Overseer, clever and ready to grasp at anything that would keep them - keep _her_ - safe. She wanted that. She wanted to be his right hand.

It was better than the endless loneliness and numbness of everything she'd lost.

"And if we have to disappear?" she asked. Her gaze flicked across his face, taking in every line, every furrow.

"Do you trust me?" Martin replied.

"Always."

Martin shrugged, a small smile turning his lips. He leaned in close. His breath was warm on her lips as he murmured, "I've already stolen one Overseer's identity. What are the identities of two poor peasants to that?"

**the end**


End file.
